


seventh inning stretch

by jill_ian



Series: america's pastime [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Enemies to Lovers, Locker Room Sex, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-24 02:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23335255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jill_ian/pseuds/jill_ian
Summary: “What if somebody heard you were fooling around the team’s star hitter, huh? What would they think?”“I think,” Steve brought his hands to Billy’s cheeks, pulled him closer, spoke onto his lips, “I don’t give a fuck.”(Or, Steve’s the best pitcher in the state of Indiana. Billy’s the best hitter. They could make one hell of a team. That is, if they don’t kill each other first.)
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: america's pastime [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1695940
Comments: 102
Kudos: 477





	seventh inning stretch

Winter had never been Steve’s favorite.

He’d never really liked the cold. Hated digging his car out of the snow. Thought sweaters were a little more scratchy than they were comfortable.

Most of all, he didn’t like winter because there just wasn’t that much to do. The world got dark at 4 o’clock and his parents flew south every year to avoid the season. South. Maybe east. Or west. Cold silence always brought boredom. Loneliness.

Basketball had always helped with that. At least a little.

It had been a good distraction to him through the years. Basketball. He’d picked it up in middle school as a way to get out of the house, give him something to do, somewhere to be.

Let his friends convince him to try out and couldn’t quite believe his eyes when he saw his name on the roster after Hell Week.

He was decent enough, liked the sound the ball made when it went in the net, the squeak of shoes against the gym floor, but he was too, well. Lanky. _Too lanky_ when it wasn’t also paired with _too tall._

5’11” was nowhere near _too tall._

Which meant he wasn’t _too good_. He was good. Just not _too good_.

And basketball this year had been slightly more interesting than the rest.

Interesting. Annoying. Horrible. Steve might have used any of those words on any given day. Any of them. All of them.

Billy Hargrove served as an unwelcome addition to the lineup as the months passed from 1984 to ‘85. Rolled in from California tanned and toned and ready to play.

It wasn’t like Billy wasn’t good, because he was. Good. Great even. Nobody could take that from him. He was smart. Strong. Had a good sense of the game and what he should be doing, where he should be.

It might have been bearable, Steve might have enjoyed some of the newfound success Billy brought if it hadn’t also included all the other shit.

The teasing. The taunting. The fact that Billy almost always marked up with Steve and plastered himself to his back every change he got. Whispered insults. Took cheap shots. Stole the ball from him with a shove and made a show out of just how easy it was to score.

Steve could have done without all of that for his last basketball season ever.

Still. Basketball cured the boredom of the winter months. Helped ease the cold. Gave him a reason to exist.

But once March hit, that meant winter received a swift kick in the ass and got out of the way to usher in spring.

Spring meant a lot of things in Hawkins, Indiana.

For one thing, spring meant the sun came back out. For another, the world was warmer, the air was cleaner, life was lighter.

Spring, most of all, meant baseball.

Baseball was in Steve’s blood.

Like every other kid that grew up in Midwestern America, he picked it up young.

First grade.

First grade was technically tee-ball. Too many kids, too many parents. Too much screaming. Not enough hand-eye coordination.

Which. Was a problem Steve didn’t have.

First time he stepped up to the plate-all three and a half feet of him-he swung and cracked the ball. Hard. Almost hit the coach standing at the pitcher’s mound square in the forehead.

It was clear even then that Steve wasn’t going to be a dud like most of the other kids. He wasn’t going to sit on second base and pile dirt in his glove, oblivious to the game around him. He wasn’t going to pick dandelions in the outfield.

Steve was good. Steve had potential.

Second grade ball went mostly the same. The only difference was that, instead of hitting the ball off a tee, each team would have a coach throw out slow pitches. Little more realistic.

As realistic as seven year olds playing sports could get.

Second grade was also around the same time that coaches began to pay more attention to Steve. Saw more of the potential. The willingness to learn. Worked with him specifically and often forgot about the eighteen other kids they were supposed to be teaching, too.

Coaches also started ducking when it was his turn to bat.

Third grade was different.

Third grade meant that kids on the team were allowed to pitch now. No more tees, no more coaches throwing slow pitches.

Every kid took a turn in the rotation, to be fair.

Steve was the only on the whole team that could throw the ball all the way to home plate.

And that? That was a feeling the other eight years of Steve’s short life hadn’t prepared him for. Being special. Being different.

Better.

Pride was a white-hot thing that burned scalding in his chest. He hadn’t had a name for it then, hadn’t known exactly what the feeling was called, but he knew he liked it. Knew he wanted more of it.

Wanted people clapping with wide eyes as they yelled his name from the bleachers.

Third grade to twelfth. Steve stuck with baseball.

As the years went on, he began to focus less on batting and more on pitching. Knew he had a good enough swing to get by, that so long as he kept his eye on the ball, he would be able to hit at least something. Make a run for it.

Pitching, though. That’s where he really stood out.

Established young that he was the best pitcher in small town Indiana and made it clear that every diamond he stepped foot on belonged to him.

He ran games. He turned heads. He got the praise.

And people, they noticed. Early.

He got brought up to JV in middle school for playoffs, got thrown into the late rotation once or twice when they were down a couple runs for experience’s sake.

The next year, he made Varsity. Only freshman on the whole team. Served as a pretty solid reliever to the senior guy that stood at the top of the food chain.

Sophomore year was when the tides turned. It was his turn to be King Shit. King Steve. Starting pitcher.

He made sure people knew his name. Whether they were shouting it from the bleachers, cursing it under their breath as they swung silly for strike three, or reading it in the newspaper.

They knew his name.

Knew _Steve Harrington_ was synonymous with _Hawkins Baseball_.

Spring 1985 was looking like it was going to be a good one. Senior year.

Most of the guys had been playing together for a while now, got along well enough. Went to winter workouts and bought into all the old-school team chemistry bullshit Coach Shaw liked to stress so hard.

Steve had butterflies when he walked into school that first Monday morning in March.

March 4th. First day of baseball season.

He walked around the entire day with a smile, an easy, effortless grin plastered to his lips. Spent every class with his eyes on the windows, cracked half open. Stared and tried to chase the sunshine, the smell of freshly cut grass as he drifted from room to room.

He was just about ready to buzz out of his skin by the time the last bell rang. Ran from English to the locker room before anybody could even try to stop him or catch up.

He was already half changed when the rest of the guys shuffled in. Put on his pants, socks, long sleeve, sweatshirt. Spring might have meant warmer, but March didn’t exactly mean _warm_ yet. Not in the traditional sense anyway.

He had his bag over his shoulder, new cleats in his hand, and the world at his fingertips. Shit didn’t really get much better than this.

The walk from the locker room to the dugout was long, took a couple minutes on an average, lazy day. Steve made it in three flat at a constant half-jog speed. Anxious and jittery and way too downright giddy for practice to just start already.

As he got closer, though, giddy sort of shifted. Faded.

There was somebody else on the field. Over by home plate.

Made Steve’s jog slow to a crawl.

They weren’t facing Steve’s direction, but he knew that posture. That hair. Knew the spread of those broad shoulders and the hard lines of those thick legs. Which. Somehow looked thicker in baseball pants than they ever had in basketball shorts.

Steve’s heart was halfway to his stomach by the time they turned.

Blue eyes bright. Smile pulled higher at one side than the other.

“You following me, Harrington?”

Steve’s blood was on fire. Took everything out of him not to drop all his stuff and tackle Billy Hargrove into the dirt right there. Right then.

His step never faltered. Just kept moving closer. Towards the dugout.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Picking daisies,” Billy shot back. “What the fuck’s it look like?

Steve could already feel the red, the anger crawl up along the side of his neck. Hot.

He didn’t dignify Billy with an answer. Just made his way past him and down the few steps into the dugout.

Hadn’t heard Billy follow him.

“Heard you’re not half bad at pitching.” Steve almost jumped as he put his stuff down at one end of the bench, opposite end from where Billy had put his. “Then again, heard you weren’t half bad at basketball either and that was wrong so.”

Steve’s jaw was tight as he turned around. Looked up. Took in the sight of him.

Arms crossed over the small fence that protected the dugout. Leaning forward, weight against the metal. Hip cocked to one side. Head angled down towards Steve with that same lazy smirk on his lips.

Steve sat on the bench, started at changing from his sneakers into his cleats. Ignored the second half of the sentence.

“Look, man. What’s your deal?”

Billy was slow to raise an eyebrow, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard Steve right. “My deal?”

“Yeah, _your deal._ Like. Are you here to actually play ball or just to piss me off for another season?”

For some reason that made Billy laugh. Made Steve’s hand tighten around his shoelace.

“Careful. Somebody might think you like having me around,” Billy said, expression once again smooth. Confident. Sure. Wrong. “Besides, heard you fellas needed a catcher.”

Steve almost choked on his breath. Almost dropped his cleat clean from his hands. Looked up with a start.

“You’re not a catcher,” he said.

Confident. Sure.

Wrong.

Billy was still smiling.

“Wanna bet?”

He tipped his head, easy, towards his stuff down at the other end of the bench. Steve followed it.

Took in the bag, at least double the size of Steve’s, zipper half done, gave way to all the equipment that was almost too bulky to fit and a catcher’s mitt that had spilled over onto the ground.

Billy’s eyes were still on him when he looked back up again. Saw more clearly now that the first four fingers on Billy’s left hand had thin strips of tape around each of the middle knuckles.

To help a pitcher see the signs.

To help _Steve_ see the signs.

“Oh fuck me,” he mumbled, hated that the words made Billy’s smile widen, just slightly.

“Knew you’d come around to the idea.”

Something tight coiled tighter as Steve did the last loop on his cleats. Stood. Walked three steps forward and met Billy at the fence. Tipped his chin to look up at him.

“You’re not allowed to fuck this up for me.”

Billy still had that same smile in place. Same one, somehow made meaner by Steve’s words. “What was that?”

“I said,” Steve took another half step forward, shoes almost at the concrete, hand out to curl his fingers into the fence in front of Billy’s legs, “you’re not allowed to fuck this up for me.” He watched Billy’s hand move, knuckles white with tape, tighten, out of the corner of his eye. Watched it flex and squeeze where it was wrapped around his bicep. “Basketball might’ve been your spot, but this is mine. So either you keep your mouth shut or get out of the way because I’m not gonna just go along with your stupid bullshit for another three months.”

“Right,” Billy said, huffed around something like a short laugh. Breath hot as it hit Steve in the face. “You ever consider I’m here because I like to play? That it might have nothing to do with you?”

It was Steve’s turn to laugh then. “Yeah right.”

Billy shook his head. Eyes half lidded, looked Steve up and down. Slow. Settled his gaze low on his face.

Steve could feel the metal cutting into his palm, loosened it before it could draw blood. Before it could mess with his grip on the ball.

“That’s a hell of an ego you’ve got, pretty boy.” Oh, so he wasn’t done with that shit. “Let’s hope you’ve got the game to back it up.”

What Steve would’ve given to be nose to nose with him. To get in Billy’s face and push and prod and provoke him chest to chest. Eye to eye.

But Billy had the upper ground. The element of surprise. The arrogance to lean down over the fence and lock his eyes on Steve like a predator to prey. Tongue out to lick at his teeth. Like he was ready to eat Steve alive.

Steve had his mouth open, was ready to bite back with another insult when another group of guys made their way down the dugout stairs, feet heavy, loud against the old concrete.

He took a step back, lost Billy’s eyes in favor of turning around to rummage through his bag. Put on a grin as the guys all came over one by one and smacked him on the shoulder, made some sort of comment about how this was the year and how Steve was going to bring them there.

State Championships were a long shot, so far off Steve almost had to squint, but it never hurt to set high goals.

When he turned back around, Billy still hadn’t moved. Arms crossed on the fence. Hip off to one side. Eyes low, locked on Steve.

Steve’s palms began to itch, remembered how good it felt to hit Billy in the jaw all those months ago.

“Do you need something?” he asked, something agitated, urgent in his tone.

Billy just shook his head. “Nope.” Popped the p. Didn’t move.

At this point, Steve was just too curious. Just too annoyed at Billy’s general existence and the fact that Billy was still breathing this close to him to hold his tongue.

“How come you never said anything? About playing?”

Billy angled his head to one side as Steve unzipped his bag to pull out his glove, his hat. Nothing if not amused. “You never asked.”

Steve focused on squeezing the brim of his hat to keep from rolling his eyes. Squeezed, got it tight enough to stick in the back right pocket of his pants.

Hated that Billy looked more amused when he looked back up. If that was even possible.

“What?” Steve asked. Hated the light in Billy’s eyes, that his smile had grown so wide Steve could see his teeth.

“Oh nothing,” Billy said, casual. Too casual for such a shit-eating grin. “Just didn’t know you swung that way.”

Steve felt his face twist. “What are you talking about?”

But Billy didn’t say anything, just shook his head. Laughed at a joke he understood and Steve didn’t. Kept it to himself. Like a secret.

Steve’s blood was getting hotter. Patience thinner.

“How come you never showed up to winter workouts?”

“Didn’t need ‘em.”

Steve was laughing before he could help it. Sharp.

“And I’m the one with the ego?”

Billy was the one that got cut off this time, had his mouth half open to go back when Coach Shaw came clapping down the first base line. Screamed for everybody to get their asses out of the dugout and up onto the field to warm up.

Couple laps. Couple stretches. Then, everybody was gearing up to actually get out onto the field.

They weren’t going to do any drills today, just a basic scrimmage to see what some of the new kids could do. See if they were worth Varsity. See who was going to get cut.

Steve was at one end of the bench, took an extra second to stretch out his shoulder, grabbed onto the pole to his right and leaned one way, then the other.

Billy was down at the other end, strapping up the last of his gear, tying his hair back into a low bun to fit beneath a backwards helmet, to keep the thin strands out of his eyes.

Steve wasn’t watching him as he pulled the hair tie off his wrist, spun it around, made sure his hair was pulled tight, secure. Wasn’t thinking about how pink his cheeks looked or how big his ears seemed now that there was no soft hair to cover them.

He wasn’t. Definitely wasn’t looking. Definitely didn’t choke when Billy picked his head up and caught his eyes, all of twenty feet away.

Steve lost them to look down and put his glove on, get it comfortable on his hand. When he looked back up, Billy was there. In front of him. Helmet backwards and mask pulled up over it so that his face was free.

Didn’t prompt himself before he began to speak.

“One’s for a fastball,” Billy said. Short. Held his pointer finger up into the air between them. White at the knuckle. “Two’s a curve.” Held up the middle next to it. “Three’s-”

“A slider and four’s a changeup.” Steve held four fingers up and wiggled them, like he’d seen every catcher do his whole life. Had his head tilted back to look up at him again. Vaguely reminiscent of the way they’d had to look at each other only fifteen minutes ago. “Right?”

Only this time, Steve had the upper hand. Felt smug, warm with Billy glaring down at him.

Smoke between his ears.

Billy didn’t say anything. Put his pointer finger down and turned his hand over to flip Steve off. Pulled the mask down over his face.

Mumbled, “Asshole,” over his shoulder and left the dugout.

Left Steve alone.

As if Billy Hargrove, of all people, was going to tell Steve what to do. On his field.

No chance.

For all the irritation and nasty red at the top of his chest, it felt good to be on a pitcher’s mound again. Nobody around.

In complete and total control with nothing but wind to cut his cheeks and cool air to fill his lungs.

Steve had his eyes towards home plate as he kicked at the dirt beneath his feet. Got it the way he liked it. Eyes on Billy sixty feet away. Watched him crouch, get his legs comfortable. Mask down over his face. Some geeky sophomore off to his left.

As soon as Steve got comfortable, he leaned forward to see better. Saw that Billy had one finger out long beneath his glove, knuckle white with tape.

Steve considered it, thought maybe a fastball could be a good way to show off. An easy way to show off. Show everybody how much stronger his arm had gotten in the off-season. Show Billy what he had.

But really. There were better ways of proving a point.

He didn’t nod before he stood tall. Just stood, brought his glove up to his chest, set the ball in his hand for a slider.

Wound up. Let it go.

Billy had no idea it was coming.

Had been set for a fastball and only just raised his glove quick enough, high enough before the ball could hit him in the chest.

Steve tricked the kid, too. Got him to swing. Watched him miss by a mile.

Pride was a hot, familiar thing in Steve’s chest.

Control. He had control.

Billy was slow to throw the ball back, a silent _‘what the fuck’_ obvious in his posture, his hesitation, but eventually he sent the ball back Steve’s way and everybody reset.

Apparently, Billy was willing to try again. Held two fingers out under his glove. When Steve didn’t move, didn’t nod, didn’t so much as shake his head _‘no’_ , Billy tried another. Held out a third.

Which. Why not? The way Steve figured, he’d already tricked the kid once on a slider. Tricked him bad. Why not try his luck again?

So he stood tall. Set his hands. Wound up. Let it go.

The kid swung so hard he almost turned around and Steve could’ve sworn he heard Billy laugh from his spot behind the plate. Threw it back easy.

When Billy set up again for the third pitch, he must have been feeling confident, good that Steve had listened that time. Must have chalked the whole first pitch fuck-up to miscommunication.

Steve watched him adjust his legs and hold one finger out, waited a few seconds for Steve to respond. Went straight to four when Steve didn’t and wiggled them easy. Had himself all set for the incoming changeup as Steve stood tall.

It was really too bad Steve wanted some heat.

Threw a fastball so quick it bounced off the bottom edge of Billy’s glove and down into the dirt in front of him.

The idiot sophomore took the swing, strike three and out. There was nobody on base, nobody to worry about stealing. So Billy could have taken his time to get the ball, but he grabbed it quick.

Grabbed it, stood all the way up. Pulled the mask up from his face and walked straight towards the pitcher’s mound. Straight towards Steve. Brow tight. Mouth a thin line.

Nothing like the smile that pulled at the edges of Steve’s lips.

Billy didn’t say anything until they were within spitting distance.

Kept his voice low, but harsh.

“I thought we agreed on calls,” he said, bright eyes narrow with something, something red.

Steve had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep a laugh from bubbling over.

“Guess I couldn’t see.”

“Open your eyes then,” Billy spat. Lifted his left hand between them. Bent his fingers at the knuckles to show off the tape. “I can’t make it any easier than this.”

He was back on his way to home plate before Steve could answer. Steve took the sight of his shoulders as a sign that he could laugh to himself, had long regained his composure by the time Billy faced him again, squatted back down.

The kid at bat off to his left was a junior. Not half bad. Not half great.

Went three and out on a fastball, changeup, fastball that Steve hadn’t nodded for, but hadn’t switched on Billy mid-stance either. Went along with the calls Billy made.

Third batter went more or less the same, save for a foul he knocked over the third base line on the first pitch. Still struck out before he could even make a run for first base.

Steve’s heart was beating so hard he could hear it in his ears.

The teams were quick to swap after the third out, Steve’s team down in the dugout ready to hit and the other all set to field.

Steve wasn’t all that surprised to see that Billy set himself up to bat for their team second. Guessed he probably would’ve rather been first, but couldn’t get his equipment off quick enough to get there.

Steve couldn’t help but watch him.

Call it morbid curiosity.

But Billy looked cocky, relaxed up at the edge of the dugout as he practiced his swing, his stance. Twirled the bat lazy with a twist of his wrist and shifted his weight from foot to foot. Eyes bright. Out towards the mound.

The kid pitching for the other half of the team wasn’t bad. He was a junior Steve had met during winter workouts this year. Had seen him pitch on JV the year before and saw some potential. Not a lot, but some.

Put their batter on first base with a bad slider that never quite. Slid.

Steve stood from his spot on the bench as Billy walked towards the plate. Watched him. Shoulders back. Chest out. Chin up.

Perfect little peacock with something to prove.

Why not get a front row seat?

Steve walked up to the fence, but this time, instead of staying level, he stepped up onto the concrete ledge. Crossed his arms over top of the metal and leaned his chin on his arms.

Hoped to shit this kid had the guts to strike Billy out cold. Out swinging.

Very first pitch. Very first swing. Steve felt his jaw hit the ground.

Billy hit the ball with a crack so hard Steve thought it should have shaken the ground. Should have seen a bolt of lightning spark off the end of the bat. They all watched the ball go over the back fence with wide eyes, open mouths.

Steve had never seen someone hit a homerun that easy. Ever. Not in 11 years of baseball had he ever seen such effortless power.

Neither had anyone else, for that matter. Not if the, “Holy _shit_ ,” off to his left or the, “Jesus _fuck_ , did you know he could hit like that?” off to his right, followed by a slap to the back of his leg, were anything to judge by.

Steve could only shake his head, once. Couldn’t tear his eyes away from where Billy was rounding the bases, not even as he said, “No clue,” and watched Billy pass home plate.

Didn’t stomp on it. Didn’t make a show out of scoring. Just let his cleat touch the hard white and jogged down into the dugout.

Steve couldn’t see him after that, refused to look back over his shoulder. Could only hear what was going on behind him, the slaps to Billy’s back, the screams of congratulations around wild fits of laughter.

He kept his eyes on the field, on the pitcher, whose head was down low. Obviously shaken in a way no one else could understand.

No one but Steve.

Steve was so focused, so totally in pain for the kid suffering less than a hundred feet away that it made him flinch when he heard the sound of a cleat stepping up onto the concrete ledge next to him. Felt someone’s shoulder knock into his. Someone that made no move to shift further when they crossed their arms on the fence next to his own and pushed the hard line of their bicep against his.

The words were warm in his ear. Low. So only he could hear.

“Still wondering why I’m here, Harrington?”

Steve kept his eyes forward, fought back a shiver with the words tickling at his skin.

Clenched his jaw. Lied.

“Yeah, you hit a homerun off the new kid. Real impressed.”

The breath from Billy’s laugh hit his cheek with a rush, almost too hot against the early spring chill.

“Knew you would be,” Billy said, confident despite the sarcasm.

Steve refused to move, ignored every impulse to turn his head and stare Billy down. Just kept his eyes forward. Kept his mouth shut.

It was a long half inning waiting for three outs, Billy practically plastered to his side. Warmth, arrogance rolling off him in waves.

Steve felt his blood heat, felt a flush spread further up his neck with each kid that got on base. Every play that prolonged having to stand there. Wait there.

And it’s not like Billy was silent, either. Not like he was simply willing to watch and take it easy on the criticism like an early season practice should have warranted.

The bottom half of every inning, without fail. For the first whole week of practice.

He’d step up next to Steve along the fence. Mirror his posture. Let their arms brush and run his mouth like he was allowed to have opinions about anything and everything.

_“That’s a lazy fuckin’ swing, huh?”_

_“Maybe this kid could hit something if he kept his eye on the ball.”_

_“Do you think he ever played before or?”_

_“Shit excuse for a changeup.”_

_“Jesus, Max can swing harder than that.”_

It didn’t matter that Steve never answered or gave no indication that he’d heard him other than a hum or a nod. Just for the hell of it.

Maybe Billy was comfortable after a couple days of Steve going along with his calls. The fact that Steve hadn’t really felt the need to trick him again, show him up. Pushed down the urge and threw what he was supposed to and shut Billy up with the sheer fact that it had been six days and Steve had had less runners make it to base than he could count on two hands.

Steve played nice. Only changed the pitch mid-stance a few times, when he thought Billy really deserved it. Ignored the groan he could hear sixty feet away if the ball hit Billy on the inside of the leg and pretended not to see the round bruises that lined his thighs whenever they had to change in the locker room.

Billy still couldn’t say anything about him, about his game. Steve made sure of it. But it was almost like he couldn’t help himself when it came to everyone else.

Every comment crawled up the side of Steve’s neck. Red, flushed from each tilt of Billy’s head as he came closer, dropped his voice down. So only Steve could hear.

_“What kind of center fielder can’t hit home plate?”_

_“Shaw’s got no fuckin’ clue when somebody should steal and when they shouldn’t.”_

_“Why’s this called a spring sport here? I’m freezing my balls off.”_

_“God, he’s slow.”_

Every single inning. Every single day.

Until finally Steve cracked.

Because apparently, “Look at his feet, they’re all wrong. That’s why he keeps missing,” was one comment too many.

Steve turned and met Billy’s eyes, electric, blue. Hardly further than a breath away.

“Why don’t you go say some of that shit to them instead of me.” More a statement than a question. A suggestion. Gestured with his head towards the field without taking his eyes away from Billy’s.

The words didn’t make Billy flinch like he wanted, didn’t make his smile fade.

“Don’t feel like it.” Voice suddenly pitched down an octave. Like he’d done that night at the Byers house.

Didn’t worry Steve now like it had then. Not when he was on his seventh straight afternoon of listening to Billy run his mouth for no reason.

A mouth that was still running.

“Besides. It’s more fun just saying it to you.”

Steve scoffed. “Because you’re allergic to being a decent person.”

“No.” The word came easy. Quickly. Made Steve narrow his eyes. “Because you know I’m right. You’re too good not to.”

Any response Steve could’ve given dried up somewhere in his throat. Stuck itself to his tongue.

Billy must have noticed in the way he tipped his chin back, teeth white in his smile. Kept going.

“You can play nice all you want, Harrington, but at the end of the day, you know you and me are the only two out here worth anything.”

Leave it to Billy Hargrove to kill Steve with compliments.

Did nothing to calm the irritation twisting at his insides.

“That’s a pretty shitty attitude to have if you wanna win games.”

“We’re gonna win games anyway,” Billy said. Too confident to do anything but fan the flame, bright beneath Steve’s skin. “Your arm and my swing? We’ll be fine.”

Somewhere back behind Billy, Steve heard Coach Shaw scream for strike three. Out three. Time to change sides again.

Billy stepped away from the fence with a clap to Steve’s shoulder. Lips pulled higher at one side than the other. Disappeared to find the rest of his equipment and left Steve to simmer like he’d done all week.

Only this time, today, Steve was feeling a little less like listening. A little less like paying attention to Billy’s white knuckles.

Felt like it was time to take back some control.

In the last few days, he and Billy had added some new pitches to the call signals. Gave Billy some more gestures to cycle through if Steve wasn’t feeling what he put up.

Back three fingers-middle, ring, pinky-meant forkball. End fingers-pointer and pinky, like a bull’s horns-for a splitter.

From there, it had only gotten more complicated. More specific.

If Billy tapped the inside of his leg, it meant he wanted the ball low. If he tapped his chest, it meant he wanted it high. Tapped his elbow, he wanted it a little left. Tapped his cheek, wanted it a little right.

Which. Should have been overwhelming, might have been if Steve hadn’t dealt with catchers that liked to micromanage before. It was a lot to remember and Billy was usually good enough to adjust mid-pitch if Steve forgot. Genuinely. Was actually patient enough to remind him about what each of the signals meant later on if he felt like he had to.

But this was Steve’s field. His game. Billy could throw out whatever the hell sign he wanted.

Steve didn’t have to go along with it.

Let Billy cycle through three or four signals before he stood. Left Billy thinking he was about to throw a curveball that was going to break towards his right.

Too bad Steve was feeling a little more like throwing out a fastball that drifted towards his left.

Nailed Billy on the inside of his left leg. Knocked him flat on his ass with a hiss Steve could hear sixty feet away.

When Billy pulled the mask up from his face, Steve could see that it was twisted, eyes screwed shut, tight. Watched as Billy pushed at the bruise with his free hand, tried to soothe the pain, push it away. His lips were moving, which meant he was probably in the process of listing off every curse word he’d ever heard in his life.

Steve covered a laugh with the back of his hand, like he was wiping sweat off his face. Was too busy trying to stifle it with a swift kick to the dirt that he didn’t hear Coach Shaw walk up next to him.

“Let’s go, Harrington. You’re done for today.”

Steve looked up, quick. Smile gone. Eyebrows pinched.

“What? Why?” he asked, but Shaw just nodded towards home plate, to where Billy was still flat on his ass, hand on the inside of his leg. Cursing softly. “Oh come on, that was nothing. We were just on two different pages-”

“Save the bullshit. I don’t wanna hear it,” Shaw said, harsh. Made Steve close his mouth with an audible click. “You two’ve been doing just fine coming up with calls, so don’t stand there and tell me that was some misunderstanding.”

“But it was! I-”

“Locker room. Go.” Three words. Hard. Left no room for him to argue. Made it worse when he nodded again towards home plate. “And bring him with you.”

“Coach-”

“Bring him with you. Work it out. And don’t let me see shit like that again.” No room for arguing. “Got it?”

Steve pressed his lips together. Kept them locked so he wouldn’t say anything else.

Nodded.

Grabbed his stuff from the dugout and started back towards the locker room with a limping Billy somewhere on his heels.

Steve didn’t wait for him, didn’t feel like talking. Just let the locker room door slam shut behind him and started at changing his clothes without a care in the world as to where Billy was. What he was doing. How he was feeling.

Billy was never far behind, though. Somewhere, Steve heard the telltale clatter of Billy’s helmet and his mask hitting the ground. Somewhere close.

His voice was loud, echoed in the hollow space.

“You mind telling me what the fuck that was about?”

Steve pulled his sweatshirt up over his head, laughed under his breath.

“Couldn’t see the call.”

“Bullshit.” With swift, well-practiced fingers, Billy undid his chest protector. Pulled it off. “That is such bullshit and you know it.”

“Sorry, man. I don’t know what else to say.”

Both of Billy’s leg pads hit the ground next, quick, all his equipment now a scattered, haphazard mess around them.

Billy was in his face in a second. Chest to chest. Nose to nose. Eye to eye.

Pinned Steve in place with his back against the lockers. Breath hot on his face.

“Sorry?” he asked, humorless laugh at the edge of his voice. “My leg is gonna be black for weeks and all you can say is ‘ _sorry_ ’?”

“Yeah. _Sorry_ ,” Steve repeated. Held his eyes. Refused to back down, even with Billy’s hands now balled in the front of his shirt. “What else do you want me to say?”

Billy was quick to answer. Pushed Steve’s shoulders further against the lockers.

“I want you to say you won’t pull that shit anymore.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“You think I haven’t noticed that you’ve been doing it all week, but I have,” he stated. Might’ve made Steve gasp if he wasn’t so determined to stay cool. “And I haven’t said anything because everybody thinks you’re king of the hill around here, but I’m done keeping my mouth shut about it.”

Steve almost laughed. Right in his face.

“Am I supposed to feel lucky or something?”

“That you’re ruining my legs and I haven’t said anything?” Billy spat. “Yeah. You should feel lucky.”

Billy could break his face without thinking twice. Had, once before. Could, again. Whenever he wanted. For no reason at all.

Steve did feel lucky. And apparently, bold.

“What do you want me to do about it now, Hargrove? Kiss it better?” If Billy’s eyes flicked down, they were back up in a flash. Made something warm, too warm curl low in Steve’s belly. “Where’d I get you?”

Steve reached his hand out, palm open, rested it on the inside of Billy’s left leg, just above his knee. The locker room just quiet enough for Steve to hear Billy’s breath catch. Hear him swallow. Watch his Adam’s apple bob with it.

Steve let his hand linger, wanted to push. Push Billy. Push his luck. See how far it could go.

Pushed it further when Billy shook his head, a faint movement. Something Steve might have missed if they weren’t breathing the same air.

Pushed. Let his hand wander further up, up along the inseam of Billy’s pants, the hard line of his thigh, muscle thick beneath his palm.

Only stopped when Billy hissed, a sharp intake of air that cut into the silence. Hissed again when Steve stayed, pushed. Pushed his thumb into the new bruise hidden beneath the fabric and couldn’t help but feel Billy’s weight shift, shift closer as he did it again. And again.

Pushed and pushed and pushed.

Billy only leaned into it.

Leaned further into it when Steve let the pressure go. Let his hand move again. Wandered further up, up, _up_ until he reached the front of Billy’s pants. Fabric taut, tented. Hard.

Pushed. Heard Billy suck in another breath. Different this time.

Felt him push back. Push into it. Push him harder into the lockers so he could get further into his space.

Steve opened his mouth, wanted to tease, wanted to poke and prod and push his luck, but he couldn’t.

Because suddenly, Billy’s lips were on his.

Billy was _kissing_ him.

Stopped the words short on his tongue and covered them with a moan when Steve didn’t know what to do but squeeze his hand to get back at him. Squeezed, tilted his head, opened his mouth when Billy licked at the seam of his lips.

Steve hadn’t thought much about what kissing Billy would be like, never let himself get that far whenever he caught himself thinking too long about the ungodly length of his eyelashes. The heat of his eyes. The pretty pink of his lips.

In that way, it was nothing like he thought it would be. Kissing Billy.

Billy had one hand on his neck so that his thumb could play at his jawline. Had his other hand on Steve’s hip, rubbed smooth circles onto the jut of a hard bone through the material of his pants. Slow.

It was easy, natural. Felt good in a way Steve hadn’t remembered kissing could be. Hadn’t felt in so long. Hadn’t really ever felt before.

It was also everything he might have expected it would be.

Kissing Billy was overwhelming, made his heart beat too loud between his ears, sent blood down to rush low. Raw. Teeth and tongue, dirty as Billy licked into his mouth, slow, controlled. Groaned when Steve gripped him hard and again when Steve finally undid his zipper and reached down into his pants.

Steve didn’t let himself think about it. Not about what he was doing. Who he was doing it with.

Let the sounds, the feeling of Billy’s chest against his, the way Billy leaned into his touch and whined when he got his hand firm around his dick, all distract him.

Let Billy kiss him. Let himself kiss back.

Billy broke away on the first twist of his wrist, the first hard jerk. Lost his lips, buried his nose in Steve’s neck. Bit down to stifle a noise. Stepped impossibly closer.

Pushed. Harder.

Pushed his thumb into Steve’s hipbone, soothed his tongue over the skin he’d just bitten. Mumbled under his breath when Steve moved his hand again. And again. And again.

“Yeah, like that.” Low. Breathless. “Fuck, just like that.”

So Steve did. Listened. Closed his eyes. Tilted his head back to give Billy better access to his neck.

Never stopped moving his hand. Not when Billy’s breaths grew gradually more ragged as the seconds went by. Labored in a way Steve could recognize. Could understand.

Nor when his lips brushed against the shell of his ear. Whispered.

“Close, I’m close, I’m- _shit_ , that feels good.”

Steve just pushed. Pushed Billy. Pushed himself against the leg Billy had gotten between his thighs.

Pushed and pushed and pushed until Billy stopped breathing. Until his breath caught high in his throat and Steve could feel the shake in his chest. Felt come spill warm all over his hand.

A high that left Billy to pant against his neck, body slack, weight heavy enough to pin Steve to the lockers.

Steve didn’t move, gave Billy a few seconds to come down. Come back.

Opened his eyes to distract himself from just how badly he still needed _pressure_ , needed _friction_ , needed _something_ and fixed his gaze over on the clock.

4:55. Practice ended in five minutes.

Slowly, Steve took his hand out from Billy’s pants, wiped it clean on the side of his shirt, already dirty from practice and sweating and now. This.

He tried to nudge Billy with his shoulder. Billy, whose face was still buried in his neck.

“Practice is almost over. We should-”

He gasped when Billy’s hand left his hip and went to his fly. Unzipped it. Easy.

Steve’s eyes went wide, heartbeat wild with panic.

“Billy, they’re gonna be back soon,” he said, swallowed hard when Billy didn’t stop. “I-“

“Better be quick then, huh?” Billy said. Lifted his head back up. Eyes square in his.

Looked straight at him as he took his dick in his hand.

Because Steve wasn’t the only one that liked to push. Forgot Billy had been pushing him since the day he moved here.

Pushed. Pulled. Twisted. Steve could feel the tape on his knuckles, rough against him, rough like the rest of his hand, strong, full of calluses. Felt so totally different from his own, so much better than his own. Harsher, harder.

Better with Billy’s lips back on his. Split his focus, overwhelmed his senses.

Brought him up and over the edge before he even knew what was happening.

Billy never stopped kissing him. Kissed him to it, through it, past it. Up and down and out until the stars had long faded behind his eyelids. Until he felt like he could breathe again.

Only then did Billy pull away, only so far as to stop kissing him, but still so close that their noses were brushing. Chests flush. Heartbeats aligned.

If Steve let his gaze drift down, he could see that the pink of Billy’s lips had gone red, red like the skin of his neck, the blush along his cheeks. He knew he probably looked the same, if not a little worse for the wear, being that his neck was probably covered in bite marks, shirt with stains from where he’d wiped off his hand, where Billy had done the same.

Billy made no move to lean away. No move to speak.

Kept quiet. Kept looking.

Let the silence drag on so long, grow so thick Steve thought he might choke on it.

Billy all but jumped back when the locker room door opened with a slam somewhere behind them. Was quick to gather up his equipment and disappear around the corner before anyone could see something.

Before Steve could say something.

Left Steve alone to pull off his shirt, replaced it with his sweatshirt over bare skin. He threw the dirty shirt in his gym bag, ignored all the comments thrown his way about, _“Really got him good today,”_ and, _“Where’s Hargrove now anyway?”_ when the room began to fill around him.

Tried not to feel some sort of sting when the door on the opposite side, opposite the bodies shuffling in, shut with a slam.

It felt stupid, in retrospect, to think that things were going to go back to normal after that. That they were going to go back to practice the next day and work together and bicker while Billy stood next to him along the fence.

He expected normal. What he got was radio silence.

Absolutely nothing.

Steve wanted to push. To feel that push back.

To know he’d worked his way under Billy’s skin just as badly as Billy had gotten under his own.

It had almost been two weeks and Steve still couldn’t go five minutes without thinking about it. About that day in the locker room. About him.

Couldn’t close his eyes without remembering the way it felt to have Billy’s lips on his, Billy’s mouth on his neck. Billy’s breath hot on his skin as he gave life to moans and gasps and filthy little bites, into bruises Steve was still covering up days later.

Nothing. Billy didn’t look at him longer than it took for three outs to pass. For Steve to walk past him as they batted second and third in the temporary rotation.

Never quite met his eyes.

Just squatted behind home plate to get what Steve gave him. Sat at the end of the bench when it wasn’t his turn to bat. Hit a homerun on nearly every other pitch.

Kept his mouth shut like he couldn’t give two fucks about any of it. Like he was above it.

As if Steve didn’t know just how much it bothered him when somebody messed up. How much it bothered him when somebody couldn’t correct an easy mistake.

How much it bothered him when Steve didn’t listen.

Steve, he wanted to push.

Wanted to feel a bruise beneath his thumb. Billy’s breath on his neck.

Last Friday in March. Three days before their first game.

Steve lost his cool.

Hit Billy with a slider he thought was going low. Ended up so high, he was half out of the crouch when it hit him on the hip.

Knocked him onto his ass, but didn’t keep him there.

Billy was up off the ground, was on his way towards the pitcher’s mound before anyone could catch him. Threw his facemask. His helmet.

Was two steps away from being close enough to tackle Steve, like they all knew he wanted, when Coach Shaw grabbed him by the shoulders. Grabbed him, pulled him back. Pulled him again when he tried to break out of the hold Shaw had around him.

“Alright, Hargrove. I’m gonna need you to calm down now.”

“Calm down?” Billy spat. Took two big steps back when Shaw let go of him, stood between them. Pointed towards Steve. Eyes wide. Wild. “He fuckin’ hits me again I’m gonna kick his ass.”

“You touch him and you’re done.” Shaw turned to face him then, held his eyes a long second, turned to face Steve next. “That goes for both of you.”

Steve laughed. “Both of us? What did I-”

“Harrington. I already warned you once,” Shaw said, cut him off. Shut him up. “Don’t make me do it again.”

Steve bit the inside of his cheek. Looked somewhere to the left of Shaw and nodded. Mumbled.

“Fine.”

Didn’t need to know what he was nodding towards when he said, “Good. Now go. And make sure you leave the attitudes at home tomorrow.”

It was the second time in as many weeks Steve was headed for the locker room in the middle of practice. Billy on his heels.

Only this time, there was something, something like anticipation fresh in his chest. Sweet in his brain. Low in his stomach.

Steve didn’t take his time by his locker today. Got there, pulled off his clothes quick. Went towards the showers.

Wanted to see just how far Billy was willing to follow. How much he’d let Steve pull. How much he’d push back.

Steve could hear him, somewhere over by the benches. Could hear the flick of undone equipment buckles, the scratch of Velcro, the clack of cleats hitting the floor.

The familiar, dull thud of clothes landing in a pile. The slap of bare feet against the tile.

Steve hardly had a second to process that last sound before Billy turned his shower off. Stood in front of the dial so he couldn’t turn it back on.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked, had only managed to get half the shampoo out of his hair.

He tried to reach around Billy, ended up sort of poking him in the stomach when Billy stepped in the way, blocked him. Made him huff. Frustrated.

“Can you get out of the way? I need to-”

“What’s your problem?”

Billy had his arms crossed low over his chest, almost over his abs, head back.

Steve almost found it laughable, the idea that Billy thought he could be intimidating anymore. That Billy thought he could scare him.

“My problem is that I’m getting shampoo in my eyes,” he stated. Purposefully daft. Purposefully a little dumb. If only to see Billy clench his jaw. “So could you maybe just-” Steve tried to reach around him again, ended up poking him again. Sighed. “What?”

“Why’d you do it?” Billy asked. Short. To the point.

Steve felt his brow pinch.

Lowered his eyes when Billy uncrossed his arms, trailed them down his chest, his stomach, all the way down to his hip, where the beginnings of a new bruise, a dull burgundy ring, almost purple, stained his skin.

Steve wanted to push.

He balled his hands. Licked his lips. Brought his eyes back up to Billy’s.

“I don’t know.”

Billy blinked at him. Steve watched the fan of his eyelashes, watched that cool, bright blue come and go, come and go, come and go.

“You don’t know,” Billy repeated, and Steve knew from his tone that it struck a nerve. That Billy didn’t believe him. “You know, it’s funny because I can’t think of a single reason,” he stopped to laugh. To shake his head, narrow his eyes. “Really. I haven’t done anything to you since- I’ve been good. I haven’t said anything. I haven’t done anything. I’ve been staying away during practice and school and you still-”

“Maybe I didn’t want you to.” Soft.

Stopped Billy cold. Eyes wider now than they were five seconds ago. Voice soft. Like Steve’s.

“What?”

“Maybe I didn’t want you to.” Steve licked his lips again. Swallowed. “Stay away.”

Billy shook his head, just barely. Barely moved his head left to right. Mouth open, pretty pink lips parted.

“Don’t fuck with me.” There was something vulnerable in it, something small in it. The threat. The plea. “I mean it, Harrington. That’s not funny.”

Steve stood tall. Held his eyes.

“I’m not,” he said, kept his voice even. Smooth. “Not trying to be funny, either.”

Billy didn’t move. Not right away. Just pursed his lips, dropped his gaze. Let it wander down, down, _down_ until it settled low. Too low. Too hot. Had his eyes on Steve’s dick so long he felt it give a kick under the heat. Sent his heart up into his throat.

When Billy looked back up, his lips were pulled, higher at one side than the other.

In one swift movement he reached behind him, twisted the knob to turn the water back on and took a step forward. Put his hands on either side of Steve’s jaw and crowded him back against the wall.

Pushed.

Leaned in. Nudged at Steve’s nose with his own and titled his head away when Steve tried to chase his lips. Tried to catch the taste of him.

Looked him dead in the eyes.

“You’re serious,” he stated. Asked.

Hesitated.

Steve could see what he was doing.

Could see that Billy was giving him the chance to say _‘no’_. To say, _‘I didn’t mean it.’_ To back away and pretend this never happened.

Steve watched his eyelashes flutter, watched cool blue eyes follow the movement as he nodded, tipped his head forward and back. Felt water trail down his cheek with it. Heard the spray of the shower as it hit Billy’s shoulders.

He put his hands on Billy’s hips, pulled him closer. Felt Billy, just as interested as he was now, half hard, getting harder against his thigh.

Pushed his thumb into that new dark burgundy bruise just to hear him hiss. To feel him press in closer.

Whispered, “Serious,” against his lips and felt his stomach swoop when Billy closed the gap and kissed him.

Gasped when Billy used his hands to help tilt his head, when Billy opened his mouth, threaded his fingertips in the hair at the nape of his neck. Left him breathless. Boneless.

Helpless, but to let Billy kiss him. To kiss him and be kissed by him. To let Billy take control and take and listen when Billy broke away, trailed his lips across his cheek until they hit his ear. Lined their hips up.

Pushed.

Whispered.

“Been out of mind thinking about you,” he said, rolled his hips, let their dicks slide lazy against each other. Down. Up again. Again. Again. Too much. Not enough. “Wanted this again so bad.”

Steve’s head fell back, exposed the long line of his throat, open for Billy to kiss, to bite, to suck.

To keep whispering into.

“Wanted _you_ so bad.” Dropped his voice down low. Almost drowned it out in the spray of the water behind him, the wet slide of their skin. “Didn’t know if you wanted to.”

Steve well. Had no choice but to push.

To prove it. That he wanted this just as bad.

Pushed his tongue into Billy’s mouth. Pushed his thumbs into his hips. Pushed him back and flipped them over so that he could be the one pushing forward.

Pushed forward. Pushed against him and lined their hips up and felt Billy gasp when he took them both in his hand.

Dragged his hand, dragged his hips, felt Billy’s drag against him. Grind against him. Felt Billy’s hands tug in his hair while the other went to his waist, the small of his back. Kept him close, close enough to kiss, close enough to groan against. Close enough to buck his hips and twist his fingers and their tongues.

Close enough that Steve could feel his breath catch the way it did all those days ago, grow as ragged as his own. Felt that heat spread low, grow, build.

He broke away to nose at Billy’s cheek. Dragged his hand harder. Felt Billy’s grip tighten in his hair.

Pushed and kept pushing until he felt Billy shake against him. Heard the strangled, “Harrington,” that left his lips as the hand in Steve’s hair twisted and the one around his waist pulled him closer.

Steve let that push him over, too.

Came with a gasp that punched at his lungs. Left him lightheaded. Legs weak beneath him. Suddenly all too grateful that Billy had an arm around him, a strong arm that kept him upright, tight to his chest. Felt Billy run his fingertips along the smooth skin, the dips at the small of his back, lazy. Easy.

They were too close. The water at his back was too warm. The rest of the world was too far away.

Steve couldn’t help himself. Tilted his chin. Leaned forward. Brushed his lips over Billy’s ear.

“You wouldn’t look at me,” he said. Soft. Couldn’t help but notice the way Billy’s hand stopped moving. The way he stopped breathing. “You wanted to know why I did it. I-You wouldn’t look at me.”

Billy’s hand left his hair, settled on the side of his neck, palm spread wide. Pushed. Angled his head so that they were nose to nose. Eye to eye.

Let his thumb go long and rubbed it over Steve’s kiss-bitten lips, tickled at them. Along them. Slow. Smooth. Made Steve’s heart rack against his ribs like they’d been running.

“See me looking now?”

As if Steve had been missing it. Missing his eyes. All this time.

Maybe he had.

Steve let Billy pull him closer so that he could kiss him one more time. Easy. Unhurried. Everything a kiss with Billy shouldn’t have been, but everything Steve wanted, needed all wrapped up into one.

Like Billy knew what he wanted. Knew what he needed.

Over almost as quickly as it came.

Steve felt Billy’s hand on his chest, felt him nudge him back, away. Watched him move away from the wall and over towards the shower next to his, turned the water on.

Thought about slapping Billy’s hand when he reached over and grabbed his shampoo without asking.

Thought a little more about how Billy would walk around smelling like him because of it. Smelling like Steve. Like a reminder.

They only stood like that for a few minutes. Only allowed themselves to live in the bubble for a few minutes. Popped it when the clock in the corner read quarter to five.

When the water started to cool, Steve turned his shower off. Went back over towards his stuff. Started getting dressed and tried not to let it mean anything when he saw that all of Billy’s stuff was in the same row. Equipment, clothes a scattered mess on the ground, just like Steve had thought it would be.

Steve was mostly dressed, had straddled the bench to put his shoes on, tie them, when Billy rounded the corner with a towel wrapped around his waist. Dripping wet, water still trailing down his arms, his shoulders, his stomach.

Steve wanted to catch it all on his tongue, knew what Billy tasted like. Wanted more.

Looked back down at his shoes before he could convince himself to do something stupid. Stupid like pinning Billy to the lockers and getting them dirty again.

They didn’t talk. Didn’t move the air.

Just got dressed in easy silence, something Steve had never really known. The idea that silence didn’t mean bad. Didn’t mean he’d fucked up. Didn’t mean he was alone.

Sure, it was kind of weird to be near Billy when he wasn’t running his mouth, had only ever really known a version of Billy that talked and talked and talked. Cut him up with words.

That was the Billy that Steve was familiar with.

This Billy, the one that put his clothes on slowly. The one that Steve could see looking at him in his peripheral vision, that looked away when Steve lifted his head to try and catch his eyes. That had a small smile on his lips, barely even there to begin with.

The one that kissed him sweet and kept him upright when he couldn’t quite stand on his own two feet.

He was unfamiliar.

Steve could get used to it. To him. Maybe.

The rest of the night passed easy. Practice the next morning, Saturday morning, easier. Lighter, looser.

Happier, somehow, with the prospect of their very first game on Monday afternoon looming overhead.

Brighter, with Billy back to standing at his side along the fence. Breath warm as he spoke, arm warm where it was pressed to his. Eyes warm sixty feet away as they struck out batter after batter after batter.

They were going to crush this team on Monday.

A feeling that only grew steadily as practice came and went, Sunday came and went, and Steve was sitting in his desk for statistics on Monday morning with his jersey on his back.

When he first joined Varsity, he thought it was a stupid tradition, wearing your jersey to school the day of a game. He knew he didn’t have to do any of that extra shit to draw attention to his game, that he didn’t have to make a show of it to let people know he was good, that they should come watch.

He didn’t hate it as much anymore. Just threw the jersey over jeans and a t-shirt, left the buttons undone. Could almost forget about the “Hawkins Tigers” spread across his chest and the number 19 on his back.

It was the number 17 he spotted across the hall that he couldn’t forget about. The number 17. The first four buttons undone with nothing beneath them but tan skin and smooth muscle.

The flash of a pink tongue along red lips, cool blue eyes in his when Billy looked over his shoulder and found him. Caught him. Winked. Sent his heart to run sprints in his chest.

God, Steve loved game day.

It was a long few hours until the first inning. Too much school. Too many butterflies. Not enough fresh air.

All the wrongs righted themselves at 4 o’clock. Steve on the mound. Glove, ball in hand. Crowd cheering his name.

Billy’s blue eyes locked on him sixty feet away.

Something was off, though. Steve could tell from the very first pitch.

His changeup had been destroying kids in practice. Destroying. He’d spent all of preseason watching batter after batter after batter swing and miss on his changeup so hard it was almost laughable. Had laughed. Often.

So, when he saw Billy put four white knuckles down for a changeup, he nodded. Got set. Let it go.

Watched the batter’s gaze shift. Watched his eyes flash backwards, forwards. Watched the ball fly off the end of his bat and out to left field.

Steve’s eyes went wide.

Looked back at Billy as the kid made it to second base. Billy just shrugged, but Steve couldn’t breathe. Had to swallow once, twice, a third time to regain his composure.

Tried to shake it off.

Maybe the kid had just gotten lucky. Guessed right.

Nobody else would. Steve had played enough games to know one lucky hit didn’t mean everybody on the rest of the team was going to have the same luck, too.

Was pretty much right. Went the rest of the inning without letting anyone make it to base. Without letting anyone score.

Had all but forgotten it even happened by the time it was their turn to bat and they were back in the dugout.

Watched their first batter make it to first base.

Watched Billy walk up to the plate slow, twirl the bat with a flick of his wrist. Square his hips. Focus.

Fouled the first pitch and hit the second so hard nobody could even tell where it went once it passed the back wall.

He rounded the bases with a smile on his lips, small. Like a king might do, one that knew he was worthy of cheers and accepted them with open arms.

An arm that knocked into Steve’s along the dugout fence a few minutes later. Strong. Familiar. Steve turned his head to meet his eyes, found that he was still smiling.

“Not bad,” Steve said, could feel his lips itching to stretch, to match Billy’s.

To kiss him.

Billy ducked his head a little at that, laughed, leaned in closer. Steve could smell the sweat on his neck, wanted to bury his nose in it and breathe in deep.

“That supposed to be a compliment?” Billy asked, something light, teasing in his tone. Tipped his head to find his eyes.

“Could be,” Steve started. “If I didn’t know you could do better.”

Billy’s smile shifted, lopsided, favored one side of his mouth. “Believe me, Harrington. I’m just getting warmed up.”

Steve held his eyes for one more second before he turned his attention back to the game. Settled for Billy’s weight at his side, Billy’s voice in his ear.

All trash-talk until Steve felt an elbow in his ribs, until he reeled his attention back in.

“You hear me? I asked what happened with that first pitch.” Billy repeated, made Steve’s smile smooth back out.

He lifted his shoulders, let them go. “I don’t know. Figure he just guessed and got lucky.”

“He hit the hell out of it,” Billy said, made Steve sigh. “You think that was just blind luck?”

“What else would it be?” Steve asked, turned his head to bury his nose in his shoulder, looked at the side of Billy’s face.

Billy, whose gaze was set forward. Expression neutral.

Steve’s eyes flicked down to watch his white knuckles flex, tense around his bicep.

“Nothin’, I guess.”

Steve let it go.

The next few innings passed quick, normal.

Hawkins was up 6-2 on a couple good hits from Billy, one from Steve. Handful from some of the rest of the guys.

The other team got lucky on a fumbled play from the Hawkins centerfielder, ended up scoring their only two off it. Steve at least had the satisfaction of knowing neither of the two runs were his fault.

At the top of the fifth, he was still feeling good. Hot.

Coach was making no move to switch him out. Billy was calling all the things he wanted to see.

Second batter of the fifth, Billy tapped his elbow, put his first two fingers down. Signaled for a curveball that broke towards the left.

Steve nodded, took a slow second to stand. Set his hands, set the ball. Set his feet.

It was in that slow second that he saw something in Billy’s stance change, like he was trying to make himself taller. Tilted his chin ever so slightly.

Watched the batter off to Billy’s left take his eyes away from the pitcher’s mound and glance down. Backwards.

At Billy.

One second he was looking back, the next he was looking forwards because Steve let the ball go, threw exactly what he was supposed to.

Watched the ball go over the back wall and couldn’t quite believe his eyes when the kid rounded all the bases. Made it 6-3.

Steve didn’t make it to the fence when they went back to the dugout two batters later. Found Billy on the bench, hands behind his head to take off his mask, helmet along with it.

Steve stopped right in front of him.

“Did you tell him what I was gonna throw?” he asked. Sharp.

Sharp as Billy’s eyes when they looked up at him.

“Come again?”

Steve started again, slower. Meaner. “Did you tell him. What I. Was going to throw?” He paused. For emphasis. To make sure Billy knew what he was saying. Understood what he meant.

“Who? The kid that hit the bomb?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, crossed his arms over his chest.

Watched Billy shake his head

“What makes you think that?”

“He was looking at you instead of me before I threw it.”

“I mean,” Billy let out a laugh, an easy sound. Amused. “I can’t help it if he’s got a thing for me, Harrington.“

“So you didn’t tell him?” he asked again. Hated that Billy wouldn’t just answer the question. “You didn’t tell him the curve was coming?”

“Why would I do that?” He almost sounded offended when he asked it.

As if Steve couldn’t tell when something was off in his stance after so many days of working together.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“Well I can’t because I didn’t,” Billy said finally. “You said it yourself, sometimes they just get lucky.”

“And you think that kid got lucky exactly the same way the first one did?”

“Yeah, I do.” Billy’s helmet hit the bench with a thud, pulled harsh at the straps of his chest protector, got it off in one swift movement. “So just calm down and move on. It was one bad pitch. It’ll be fine.”

They only had two more innings. Steve knew it would be fine. Knew it would take a monumental fuckup for them to lose at this point. Which, if they hadn’t done that already, why would it happen now?

And for the most part, Billy was right. The sixth inning was fine. Nobody even made it to base. Hawkins scored another run when it was their turn to bat and they pretty much had the victory in the bag.

But there were two outs at the top of the seventh. Bases loaded. Hawkins up 7-3.

All Steve had to do was strike this kid out and they’d win, they could go home. He could put this game behind him and move on to the next one, pretend this one never happened.

The kid at bat already had a strike. Had been up at bat so many times during the game that Steve knew he was shit at fastballs. Didn’t have the hands fast enough to react to them, especially if Steve let them drift high or low.

So when Billy tapped his chest and put one white knuckled finger down, signaled to Steve for a fastball he wanted to end high, he nodded.

Why not? Why not get this kid to swing hard? Miss hard?

He stood and set his hands, set his feet.

Watched Billy’s posture straighten, watched the kid look back towards him. Towards Billy. Hesitated when he saw the kid’s mouth move.

When he saw Billy’s mouth move.

Hesitated long enough to consider switching the pitch and back and forth and back again until finally he settled on the fastball set to land high and let it go.

Watched it go over the back wall. Watched runner, after runner, after runner, after runner touch home plate. Grand Slam.

Tied the game up. 7-7.

Steve felt like his entire body was shaking. Like he was covered head to toe in furious, bright red that might match the pull of Billy’s lips behind his mask. The smirk.

Steve let the anger, the rage strike the next kid out on fastballs for pitch one, two, and three.

Walked to the dugout as he undid the Velcro that kept his glove on his hand. Squeezed it. Went straight to the end of the bench and nailed Billy in the chest with it.

Billy let it fall to the ground, looked up with wide eyes, an open mouth. Eyebrows knitted tight.

“Hey, what are you doing-”

“I knew it,” Steve said. Voice low, dangerous. Anger a hot, quiet thing in his chest. “You told him what the pitch was gonna be. I fuckin’ _knew_ it.”

“No, I didn’t. He just-”

“I saw you talking, you asshole. I’m sixty feet away, but I’m not blind.” Billy shut his mouth with a snap. Poked his tongue at the inside of his cheek. “What was the point, huh? What the hell do you have to prove in pulling that?”

Billy paused a second.

“Nothing to prove,” Billy said. Slow. “Just figure we’re even now.”

“Even?”

“Yeah. _Even_.” He repeated, nodded down towards his legs. “For all that shit you pulled changing pitches during practice.”

“Oh, are you fucking-”

“Back up, Harrington.” It was Coach Shaw’s voice behind him, could guess it was his hand around his arm too. Tight. Pulled. “Figure it out after. Hargrove’s up next.”

“I don’t care if he’s up next. He-”

“I wanna win a game,” Shaw said. “So why don’t you back up, let Hargrove finish this thing off, and settle it later?”

Later. Fine.

Steve spent the rest of the inning on the bench. Back against the metal. Kept his eyes on the ground when the first batter made it to base, when Billy hit a ball that allowed the kid to run all the way around and score.

When they won.

Didn’t go out onto the field. Didn’t shake hands. Didn’t pat anybody on the back.

Just stayed in the dugout and packed his shit. Waited until he couldn’t hear Billy’s voice anymore and counted to ten. Followed him and the three guys around him as they all walked towards the bleachers. Hands full of extra game day equipment they stored beneath them.

He heard Billy’s laugh before he rounded the corner, heard the loud thud of all the equipment hitting the ground and the echoes of all the guys still talking about Billy’s last hit.

Steve was still covered in red. Stopped at the gate and leaned against it. Cut into their conversation.

“You guys wanna give me and Hargrove a minute?”

Steve had four pairs of eyes on him, silence around him.

The guys all knew this was coming, what with the way they dropped the rest of the stuff and patted Billy on the back, walked past Steve, out and away.

Left them alone.

Steve shut the gate behind them, left it unlocked, but kept them separated, away from the rest of the world. Gave him a reason to step forward, step close. Dropped his bag on the ground and stopped a few feet in front of him.

“That was fucked up what you did.”

Billy hardly flinched, just dropped his bag somewhere next to him. Stuck his hands in his back pockets.

“It’s no worse than hitting somebody with a pitch they’re not expecting,” he stated, but he was wrong. Had no idea how wrong he was.

“Yes it is,” Steve argued. “It’s a lot worse.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Well I do, so just. Don’t do it again. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Right,” Billy laughed. “Like you listened when I asked you not to nail me again?”

Steve shook his head. “This is different.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

“How?” Billy asked, voice pitched up. Louder than it had been a second ago. Like he was starting to lose his cool. “How is any different-”

“Because I got scouts coming to these games, alright?” Steve yelled, finally gave voice to the fear, the irritation, the angry red that had been threatening to spill the last half hour. “I got people coming to these games to see me play and it might be my only shot at getting into college and you can’t fuck that up for me.”

Billy was frozen. Pink lips parted. Blinked at him. Hard.

“Harrington, I-”

“I’m serious, Billy. This isn’t just some stupid game,” he said. His voice was lower. Different. Hated the way it shook. Betrayed him. “One of these guys offering me something might be my only ticket out of here. So I-you can’t-“

“I won’t.” Two words. Soft.

Billy moved closer at that. Put his hands on either side of Steve’s neck. Wide. Warm.

Grounding in a way Steve hadn’t felt in three days, felt like it had been a lifetime ago. Ducked his head.

Wasn’t looking up when he spoke again.

“You can’t.”

Still wasn’t looking when Billy repeated himself.

“I wont.” Like a promise.

“I’m not kidding anymore,” Steve said. Slow. “I need to get the hell out of here.”

He could see Billy nod at the top of his vision, watched his chin disappear up and down, up and down. Heard him swallow.

“Okay,” Billy said. And Steve felt his thumbs move, press under his jaw to tilt his head up, make it so Steve was looking at him when he said, “Okay,” again, like he wanted Steve to hear him.

Steve heard him. Repeated.

“Okay.”

Steve couldn’t take it then. Couldn’t take cool blue eyes looking at him so soft. A mouth so pink it seemed like it was begging.

Could only think of one thing to do and that was answer their plea.

Leaned forward. Kissed him.

Hooked his fingers in Billy’s belt loops and pulled him closer. Tried to forget about fear and failure and getting stuck in a hellhole like Hawkins. Let Billy’s lips wash them away. Warm. Sure. Persistent against his and perfect as they tilted their heads, deepened it.

Drowned in it.

Drowned in the lazy slide of Billy’s tongue against his and the moans he couldn’t help when Billy threaded his fingertips in his hair, tugged.

When Billy pushed his legs apart and slotted a thigh between them. Pushed against each other. Crashed into each other.

Still felt like he was drowning when Billy whispered against his lips.

“You’re getting out of here, Harrington.” Steve swallowed hard at the words, tightened his hold on Billy’s hips. Didn’t open his eyes for the fear of what might spill out. “We’re getting you out of here.”

And really, what was Steve supposed to say to that? What was he supposed to say when the last person on earth he ever thought would say that was standing here, just having kissed him, dick hard at his hip, promising him shit like that?

Like he meant it?

Steve didn’t know. Couldn’t find the words. Nodded.

Didn’t totally expect Billy to keep going, for him to speak around a soft laugh.

“Even if it means staying on my knees and keeping my mouth shut.”

Didn’t know what possessed him to answer.

“Maybe not always shut.”

Steve could count on one hand all the times he’d seen Billy speechless. Figured he’d have to add a finger for this time, too.

When he opened his eyes, Billy had his head tilted to one side. Blue eyes half-lidded, blown. Watched as Billy licked his lips, ran his tongue over them, slow. Like a tease.

“How about now?”

One of Billy’s hands left the side of his neck to trail down his front, caught at the buttons on his jersey. Trailed and teased until his hand was at the front of Steve’s pants. Cupped a hand around him. Pushed and pressed and felt so good Steve couldn’t help but lean into it.

Steve snuck a hand beneath Billy’s jersey, pushed his thumb into the smooth skin that met him there, felt the muscle tense when he did it again. Felt Billy’s dick twitch against his thigh.

“Your call.”

Steve knew he didn’t need to offer it up twice.

Billy’s call started with another squeeze of his hand, a hard pull that knocked the air out of Steve’s lungs. Made his whole body stiffen, try to get closer. Billy kissed the underside of his jaw then, let his lips linger before he trailed them down the side of his neck, nipped and bit and licked his way down.

Just like that, Steve’s hands were empty, lost Billy’s hips when he sunk down to his knees and mouthed at his dick through his pants, made him screw his eyes shut tight, made it so that he heard, rather than saw, Billy get his fly down. Tug his pants down, bring his briefs down with them.

Just like that.

Billy was on his knees. Mouth wide open.

Wrapped a hand around the base of his dick and leaned forward, took Steve between his pretty pink lips. Swirled his tongue around the head and moaned when Steve’s hands found his hair.

Took him deeper. Made Steve see stars as soon as he felt himself hit the back of Billy’s throat. Would’ve lost it then and there if Billy didn’t ease off, just to bring him right back.

If Steve thought he was losing it, he thought maybe Billy was, too. The way he moaned around him, twisted his wrist to get what couldn’t quite fit. Swallowed around him and ripped a moan from the back of Steve’s throat like nothing he’d ever done, nothing he’d ever felt before.

And if all of that wasn’t enough to get him off, it was what he saw when he looked down that did.

Billy’s hand around the base of him. Billy’s lips around the rest, mouth wide with the stretch of him. The fan of Billy’s eyelashes, flush with his cheeks where he had his eyes closed.

Billy’s free hand shoved in his pants to jerk himself off like this was enough. Like having his mouth around Steve was enough to get him there.

“ _Fuck_ , that’s hot,” Steve gasped, couldn’t catch it before it left his lips. Earned him a moan, a hard twist of Billy’s wrist. Made him screw his eyes shut tight again. “Billy. Billy- _shit_. I’m gonna.”

Steve tried to warn him, tried to let him know. Thought Billy was going to stand up and finish him off with his hand.

If anything, it made Billy go harder. Move faster. Take him deeper. Moan loader.

Steve came down the back of his throat before he could warn him again. Came so hard his vision went white. Mind went numb.

Billy just worked him through it, brought him down from it. Only let him go when Steve could feel himself beginning to soften and that’s when he chanced opening his eyes again. Chanced looking down at him.

Billy wasn’t looking at him, was in the process of tucking himself back in his pants, wiping his hand on the concrete next to him.

Because he. Came like that. Billy came like that.

Steve couldn’t help but let his jaw fall.

“You,” Billy’s head shot up, looked up at him. Finished with his zipper and held his eyes as he stood tall again, nose in line with Steve’s. “You really-”

“Shut up,” Billy said, pinched his hip with it.

Steve wondered if his brain was playing tricks on him when he thought Billy’s voice sounded rougher now than it had before.

“No, I wasn’t gonna,” Steve trailed off, didn’t say, _‘I wasn’t gonna make fun of you.’_ Tried to start over with, “I would’ve,” and let the sentence hang there, again. Didn’t say, _‘I would’ve done it for you.’_

Squeezed Billy’s arm and hoped to God he understood what he meant.

Billy swallowed hard at that, made something hot crawl up Steve’s spine.

“Didn’t have to.”

“But I-”

Steve got cut off before he could finish the thought, cut off by the fact that Billy was kissing him again. Made something hot burn brighter when he licked into Billy’s mouth, when he could taste himself there.

Steve sort of took control of it from there. Put his hand on Billy’s face, slowed it down and kissed him easy like Billy had done in the showers on Friday. Took something rushed and quick and let it. Simmer. Roll.

Hoped his lips could say something like, _‘This doesn’t have to be hurried,’_ and, _‘It doesn’t have to be hard,’_ and, _‘We don’t have to hurt each other to get this,’_ in a way he knew his voice couldn’t.

Let himself hope Billy’s lips were saying, _‘I want all that, too,’_ when he kept kissing back.

And things were good. After that.

Stayed good. Maybe got better.

The team was as successful as Steve had ever seen it. They were scoring runs, winning games, kicking the shit out of teams they’d never been able to touch in the past.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Steve had the most strikeouts out of any pitcher in the entire state of Indiana. Or maybe something to do with the fact that Billy had the most homeruns.

Either way, they were on fire and they were only getting hotter. Only brought everyone else along to burn in the flames with them. Turned all their opponents to ash, to dust.

People noticed. Scouts noticed.

More than one scout from more than one university stopped Steve on the way to his car after a game to discuss a visit. To talk about a potential scholarship. Made him smile so wide he thought his face might split down the middle.

They’d talk, shake hands, and as soon as the scout had their back turned, Billy would sling an arm around his shoulders. Duck his head and tilt it to one side so that his temple was touching Steve’s.

Would say, _“Told you we’d get you out, huh?”_ and knock his hip into Steve’s so hard they’d almost fall over.

Always caught each other before it could happen.

As for them, it was almost like that afternoon served as a kind of truce. A mutual agreement that they were each going to cut the shit. Stop with the sabotage.

An invitation to keep going. An offer for more.

Steve spent more than one afternoon waiting a couple extra minutes in the shower for everyone else to leave. For Billy to round the corner. For Billy to kiss him and push him up against the tile and help him forget what he’d even been doing there in the first place.

If it wasn’t there, it was in the dark alley outside the gym, long after everyone else had driven home. Hard brick scratching at his back, sometimes at his palms. Billy’s mouth against his, Billy’s dick against his.

Billy whispering everything and nothing and something all at once while the rest of the world faded away and gave Steve this.

Gave Steve him.

It never stretched outside of baseball, this thing they had going. They’d fool around before practice, games, after, but it was almost like once they changed and went home, they left it there.

Didn’t bring it into the world outside of baseball. Nodded at each other from across the parking lot if they had to pick up the kids from the arcade. Drank from each other’s cups at house parties after big wins and smiled at each other like nobody else was looking.

But it never went further than that. Not like it did in lukewarm showers or between brick buildings.

That was okay. It was good. It was enough.

Steve took what Billy gave and he ran with it. Gave and watched Billy take, watched him run, too.

He could live with that.

March passed, April came, and so did May and they were two weeks off from playoffs when Coach Shaw pulled the two of them aside, made them stay late in the dugout after practice one Friday.

Lectured them on the importance of making good decisions at the end of the season and made sure to emphasize just how much the team was counting on them. How much everyone needed both of them.

Needed both of them at their best.

Finished up his speech and left them alone to talk it over between themselves.

Which.

The two of them. Alone. In an empty dugout. With the sun going down. And no one else around. Shielded by a fence.

Steve ended up with a lapful of Billy not ten seconds after Shaw walked away.

Made him laugh how quick Billy did it. How easy. How tickled fucking pink Billy looked when he settled, thighs straddling Steve’s hips, hands on the back of the bench behind either side of his shoulders.

Steve had to tilt his head back to look up at him, couldn’t push the smile down. Pushed his shirt up to get at his skin, spread his hands wide on Billy’s sides.

“Hey,” he said, watched Billy’s lips pull higher for having heard it.

“Hi.” Billy angled his head down, let his lips just ghost over his. “You going to Tommy’s later?”

Tommy was throwing a party because they had the weekend off. Finally. Finally had a Friday night to have a good time. To let loose. A whole weekend to recover from it.

Everybody had been talking about it all week. Steve had been wanting to ask Billy about it all week.

“Are you?”

“I could be convinced.” Steve heard him laugh when he tried to chase his mouth, missed when Billy lifted his chin. Felt the heat of his breath across his face. “Now, Harrington. I’m pretty sure you just sat through the same bullshit talk about making good decisions that I did.”

“Yeah and?” Steve mouthed at Billy’s jaw, pushed his thumbs into the muscle of Billy’s torso, the rest into the small of his back, tried to get him to cave.

“And,” Billy said, nudged at Steve’s nose with his chin. Sat back on his thighs and looped his arms around his neck, “what if somebody heard you were fooling around the team’s star hitter, huh?” Steve could feel Billy’s fingertips playing at the sensitive skin behind his ear, felt goosebumps raise on his arms. “What would they think about that decision?”

“I think,” Steve brought his hands to Billy’s cheeks, pulled him closer, spoke onto his lips, “I don’t give a fuck.”

And finally- _finally_ Billy gave in.

Tilted his head. Kissed him proper.

Tugged Steve’s lower lip between his teeth and shifted closer and gave Steve what he wanted when he opened his mouth, groaned when Steve lifted his hips, nudged himself, already half hard, against Billy, tried to find friction through the fabric.

“Fuck, Steve.”

 _Steve_.

That was different, too. In a good way. Had a way of showing up at the best times. Made Steve’s breath catch every time.

Steve needed him closer, though. Wanted him closer.

Put his hands on Billy’s thighs and dug his fingers in to try and pull.

Didn’t understand what was happening when Billy hissed, when he broke away from the kiss with a wince.

Steve’s eyes shot open, took in the twist of Billy’s mouth, the crease between his brows.

“What happened?” he asked, opened his hands, let his palms lie flat on the muscle of Billy’s legs.

Billy was quick to shake his head.

“Nothing,” he said, tried to lean back down to kiss him again, cover the moment up, move past it.

Steve dodged his mouth, tilted his head out of the way.

“Are you sure?”

Again, Billy moved his head, nodded this time. Quick. Quick as before.

“Yeah, m’fine. Can you just let me-”

He put a hand on Steve’s jaw, kept him still as he kissed him. Steve let him. Let himself kiss back.

Was about to chalk the whole thing up to sensitivity or sore muscles when he dug his fingers in again and the sound was louder in the back of Billy’s throat. A groan. Not the good kind.

Steve pulled his lips away with a smack that thundered in the empty dugout.

“No, come on, you have to tell me what’s up,” he begged. Kept going even though Billy wouldn’t open his eyes. Wouldn’t look at him. “What’s-are there bruises? Did I-did I get you at practice or something?”

When Billy opened his eyes, he only looked at him for a second, held his eyes for less time than it took for Steve to suck in a breath when he said, “No, it,” and turned his head, forced Steve to look at his cheek, “it’s not from you.”

Steve felt confusion twist his insides. “Well then where did you-”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Billy’s voice was low. Hard. Like he didn’t want Steve to argue.

Like he didn’t have bruises on his thighs that weren’t Steve’s fault for once.

“I don’t care,” Steve said, matched his volume, tried to be kinder with it. Softer. “If you’re hurt, I don’t wanna-”

“I said I’m fine.” Harder. Harsher.

Steve didn’t believe him.

“Billy,” he said, wanted Billy to look at him, wanted Billy to see how serious he was.

But in one swift motion, one small, “Fuck this,” under his breath, Billy was up off his lap. Over at the other end of the bench.

Threw his bag over his shoulder and left the dugout before Steve could even try to follow.

Steve was frozen. Mouth open, useless. Alone.

He hadn’t seen Billy snap like that in months. If he was being honest, he couldn’t actually tell you the last time he remembered Billy snapping like that.

At him. At anyone.

Since baseball started, Billy had been. Better. Looser. Lighter.

Like somehow, for some reason, he could control his temper better.

Now, Steve was alone. No Billy, no nothing.

Got up and walked to his car with the dark, sick feeling looming overhead that he’d fucked something up. Overstepped. Pushed too far.

Pushed on something he shouldn’t have.

The worst part was, they didn’t have baseball again until Monday. Had a game Monday afternoon. An easy team. Easy win, the whole reason Coach had given them off all weekend.

His only hope was that Billy would still show up to Tommy’s. That he wanted to go to the party more than he was mad at Steve.

He took his time putting himself together when he got home. Wanted to waste a little. Took a shower so long it burned his back. Picked out clothes he knew for sure made him look good. Made himself something to eat and ate in the living room over a rerun of Bob Newhart that he wished could’ve made him feel better than it did.

Was too nervous, had too many knots coiled in his stomach to really laugh.

Really think about anything that wasn’t Billy.

Tommy’s party started around 10. By the time Steve got there, it was 11:15, figured that an hour was more than enough time to let Billy get there first. Have a drink or two. Calm down.

Not that Steve saw him anywhere in the house.

He wandered, lazy, idle for fifteen minutes and tried to catch the sight of long blond curls, bright blue eyes. Broad shoulders and pink lips that Steve was so afraid he was never going to touch again he could hardly see straight.

At 11:30, he caved. Had half a cup of jungle juice in his hand, smacked the junior pitcher-Alex, kid’s name was Alex-on the shoulder.

Alex, who spilled almost all of his drink all over Steve when he turned around and saw who it was.

“King Steve! Glad you made it!”

“Hey, man. Me too,” he laughed, held this kid steady with the hand he had on his shoulder. “Listen, you seen Hargrove around anyplace?”

“Uh, m’not sure.” Alex took a second, squinted hard like he was shuffling through his brain to try and find him in there. Jesus. “Think I saw him go out back a little while ago? Maybe? I don’t remember.”

“Alright, take it easy.”

“No thanks,” he said, made Steve laugh. When he turned to leave, Alex strained to yell over the music. “Catch you later, captain!”

“Sure thing,” Steve mumbled.

Hoped to shit he’d be feeling better, more in the mood for a party by the time that came.

It was cooler outside, calmer. Steve was happy to leave the mess of sweaty bodies and music on the other side of the glass door behind him. Squinted out into the yard.

Felt his stomach drop when he didn’t immediately see Billy.

He didn’t see Billy, but he didn’t feel like going back in the house either. Decided instead to wander around a minute in the off chance Billy was tucked away somewhere.

Was glad he did when he was right.

When he found Billy hidden against the side of the house, half covered with shadows, half with dim moonlight, streaks from weak street lamps. He had his back to the siding, head tipped back against it, left the line of his neck long, open. One hand hooked in his belt loop, the other down at his side, wrapped around a beer can.

Steve dragged his feet a little harder through the grass, hoped the sound would be enough to let Billy know he was coming.

Was slightly grateful when Billy picked his head up and found his eyes, frown on his lips.

Steve swallowed hard, spoke into the air between them.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Steve stepped closer, turned, rested his back against the house next to Billy. Took it as a good sign when their arms brushed and Billy didn’t flinch, made no move to step away.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Billy held up his beer can, shook it side to side.

“If it’s free, it’s for me, right?” Steve watched him bring it up to his lips and take a sip to drive the point home.

Huffed. “I don’t-I meant after before.” _After you left._ “You seemed pretty pissed.”

“Well, I’m not anymore so,” Billy said, moved his jaw like he wanted the beer off his tongue.

“Okay,” Steve said, watched him out of the corner of his eye. “Are you alright though?”

Mumbled. “M’fine.”

“You sure?”

“Sure I’m sure.” The answer was fast, slurred. “S’not like it’s your problem anyway.”

Steve hesitated. Chewed at the inside of his cheek. Silence thick, heavy. So strong it was almost deafening.

“Billy.”

He had the beer back up to his lips when he said, “Yeah?” Took a long sip.

“Listen.” Steve watched his Adam’s apple bob when he swallowed. “About what happened earlier-”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Yeah, okay. I mean, I heard you the first time, but-”

“Leave it alone.”

“I can’t,” Steve stated. Finally. Finally let himself snap a little. Get loud. “I don’t know how I’m supposed do that when I-”

“What do you want me to do, Harrington?” Billy’s voice was sharp, teasing. Would’ve echoed into the yard if he was yelling. If he wasn’t whispering so hard it steamed against the cool air. “Hold your hand and tell you all my problems and let you fuckin’ kiss them all away or something?”

Steve swallowed hard. Nodded. Once.

“Yeah,” he said. Soft. “If you want.”

Billy shook his head, ducked so that now he was looking down at the ground. Ran a hand through his hair.

“This isn’t that,” he said, quick. This. _We_. “I don’t-we don’t do that.”

Steve wasn’t convinced. Wasn’t sure Billy wasn’t trying to convince himself.

Even softer.

“We could.”

“Harrington-”

“Billy, you can talk to me. I don’t-I won’t-“ he stuttered, didn’t say, _‘I don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk to me’_ or, _‘I won’t run away if you say something real.’_ Took a breath. Had his eyes locked on Billy’s profile when he said, “I wanna listen,” and watched Billy pause once he let the words go. “If you wanna talk, I wanna listen.”

It was a long second before Billy moved, before Steve heard him breathe again.

Steve had an apology on the tip of his tongue when he felt a cold hand nudge at his. When he adjusted his arm and suddenly Billy’s fingers were threaded in his. Thick. Rough.

It was a longer second still before he spoke again.

Steve had turned his eyes forward, didn’t want to be breathing down Billy’s neck when there was obviously something more serious going on than he first expected.

“There’s not a lot to it,” Billy said, casual. Betrayed himself with a grip so strong, Steve thought his knuckles might be white if he looked down. “Got home from practice the other night and my dad was holding a joint he found in my room. Had some shit to say about it.”

Steve knew _‘some shit to say’_ didn’t bring bruises along with them. Not unless.

“He knock you around?”

“What do you think?” He could hear Billy swallow next to him. Felt something sharp clench in his chest. Wasn’t quick enough to open his mouth before Billy kept going. “S’nothing new. He was just a little less careful about it than normal.”

“Normal,” he repeated, the word felt like a punch to the gut. “It happen a lot?”

Billy’s shoulder hit his when he lifted it, let it go. “Just when he drinks.”

“How much does he drink?”

And if Billy’s words hadn’t been sobering enough.

Steve couldn’t breathe when Billy said, “Beer every time he remembers I exist, probably.” Small. Like a secret.

“That’s,” Steve trailed off. Didn’t quite know what to say to that. Didn’t know what to do about it. How to help. Caught his cheek between his teeth and bit down so hard it hurt to keep from saying something stupid.

“Yeah,” Billy agreed. To what, Steve didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t know what to say either, but his voice was lighter a couple seconds later, more normal when Steve watched him turn his head in his peripheral vision and felt Billy press his nose to his shoulder. Muffled his words. “Didn’t you say something about kissing me when I was done talking?”

Steve’s lips pulled high before he could think better of it. “I think it was you that said that.”

“Didn’t hear you say it was a bad idea,” he said, made Steve laugh. Almost missed it when Billy whispered, “Come here,” warm against his thin t-shirt.

Which. How could Steve say no to that?

He lifted his shoulder easy to nudge Billy off. Brought his free hand up, around, curled it under Billy’s chin, ran his thumb over his lips and replaced it with his mouth when Billy opened his own and said, “Please.”

It was just so easy. So easy to stand there and kiss him. To kiss him and kiss him and kiss him until the words weren’t so fresh in his ears. The wounds weren’t so fresh in his chest.

The longer they kissed the more sense Steve made of it all. Of the situation. Of Billy.

Made the most sense when Steve remembered the way Billy had grown so serious all those weeks ago. When Steve told him how bad he wanted to get out. The fact that Billy hadn’t questioned it, accepted it, understood it.

Billy understood it, understood him, because he needed to get out, too.

Steve broke away to say it, the same way Billy had all those weeks ago.

Pressed his lips to the corner of Billy’s and whispered, “We’ll get you out, too,” against them.

Took it as a victory when Billy didn’t back away. Didn’t stop kissing him. Didn’t stop touching him. Tugged his lower lip between his teeth and ran his tongue along it like he wanted to feel Steve’s words in his mouth for himself.

Just easy. Slow. Unhurried. Nowhere to be, nowhere to go. Slightly drunk and lazy and hazy with no end goal in mind. No finish line to rush off towards.

Steve was three seconds from pushing off the wall to stand in front of Billy, get a better grip, get a better view when Tommy’s voice echoed around the corner. Sent them apart with a smack.

“There you are, Hargrove. _Jesus_ ,” Tommy said. Stayed a couple feet away, over by the edge of the house. Too far to see the fact that their hands were still linked, was probably too drunk to understand what that meant anyway. “You gonna come back in and show these losers how to do a keg stand anytime soon or what?”

If Steve hadn’t been standing so close, he might have missed the way Billy mumbled, “Or what,” under his breath.

Bit his lip to hold back a laugh.

Bit back a sigh when Billy let go of his hand and took a step away from the house. Looked back at him over his shoulder.

“You coming?”

Where else would he go?

Steve followed him back into the house. Found himself counting when Billy got up on the keg, heard Billy’s voice yell the loudest when the rest of the guys convinced him to go next. Partnered up with Billy for beer pong and kicked the shit out of everybody that tried to compete with them.

Billy smiled at him. Billy laughed with him. Billy followed him out when he left and kissed him out by his car before he got in and drove the half-block it took to get to his house from Tommy’s.

Steve went to sleep for the first time in weeks feeling like maybe he’d found something that might not break so easily in his hands. Might not disappear if he stepped the wrong way. Might not crack if he pushed.

Billy was tough. He was rough and he could be mean and he could snap and push back before anyone could think twice, but he held Steve’s hand, too. He held Steve’s hand. And talked to him. And kissed him away from baseball. Parted his pretty pink lips and said, “Please.”

Steve had always heard spring was a time to start over. A time for second chances. He never imagined it could’ve given him this, though. Could’ve given him something, someone like Billy.

A chance at something even his wildest dreams couldn’t have conjured up.

It was hell waiting all of Sunday and most of Monday to see him again.

Once or twice, his eyes caught the number 17 in the hallway at school.

Couldn’t help but call, “Hey, Hargrove!” over the rest of the noise just to see him turn. See him smile. To drag his eyes down the open buttons of Billy’s jersey and lick his lips, let Billy know what he was thinking.

First time he was actually able to talk to Billy face to face was in the locker room, getting changed into the rest of their uniforms for the game.

All the rest of the guys were around, changing and bullshitting, playing music through somebody’s boom box they’d smuggled in from home.

So Billy was casual, kept his tone even when he pulled up his socks and said, “What do you got going on after the game, Harrington? You sticking around here or?”

Steve knew what he was really asking. The question hidden beneath the surface.

_You gonna wait for me?_

Steve’s lips were flat when he shook his head, though. Looked up at him from his spot on the bench.

“Parents are coming today,” he explained. Late May and it would be the first time they’d been to a game all season. “They wanna go out to dinner after or some shit.”

Billy’s smile didn’t fade like he thought it might. He watched Billy hesitate, saw his eyes dart around the room, see if anybody was paying attention to them, see if anybody was listening.

Put his foot up on the bench and bent over to tie his cleat, ducked his head closer to Steve’s in the process.

“How about after that?” he asked, twisted the laces around his white-taped knuckles.

Steve felt his heart beat faster at the question. “Should be free. Why?”

“Was thinking about going over to the quarry,” Billy said, flicked his eyes over towards him, quick. Looked back down at his shoe. “Kinda wondering if there was anybody pretty around here that might wanna keep me company.”

Steve wondered if his cheeks were as red as he was afraid they might be. Felt like they might burn if he reached up to touch them.

“Got somebody in mind?”

Billy’s smile lifted higher at the corner of his mouth. “Pitcher on the baseball team’s not too bad on the eyes.”

Steve laughed before he could help it. “That right?”

“Mhm,” Billy hummed, low, somewhere in the back of his throat. Leaned in as he stood back up, just long enough to let, “Might be prettier with me lookin’ up at him, though,” fall from his lips.

If that wasn’t a thought to send a flush up Steve’s neck.

Billy left him alone to picture it. Live with it.

Had turned and left Steve to stare at the number 17 before he could even think to say, _‘I’ll be there.’_

Didn’t need to clarify what he meant when he caught Billy by the arm an hour later, just before they took the field, and said, “9 o’clock.”

Just let his smile widen when he saw Billy run his tongue over his teeth.

Repeated, “9 o’clock, pretty boy,” back to him.

Boy, did that set the tone for the afternoon.

What was supposed to be an easy game was somehow miles easier than they expected.

At the top of the sixth, they were up 7-1. Shaw had subbed in most of the younger kids for the experienced players, wanted to give the starters a rest with playoffs around the corner. Subbed Alex in for Steve between the fourth and the fifth, took Billy out before he could put his equipment back on to go out for the sixth.

Billy spent most of the game at his side along the fence. Made fun of everybody and everything, players on their own team included. Made Steve laugh so hard he had to hide his face in his jersey, made Billy laugh when he joined in, too.

Shaw kept all the starters in the batting lineup, though. A couple extra swings never hurt anybody and extra practice against an easy team was never a bad thing to come by.

So when Billy went up to the plate at the bottom of the sixth, everybody was watching. Everybody was ready to see the Homerun King hit one over the back wall. Finish this thing off.

Steve watched, comfortable from his spot on the fence. Arms crossed easy over the top of it, chin on top of them. Hid his mouth against his forearm so nobody could see the fact that he was smiling. The fact that he couldn’t wait to see Billy hit the shit out of the ball and round the bases.

He was so ready for it he could almost feel his insides buzzing as Billy set his feet, couldn’t bite down a gasp when Billy fouled the first pitch, blinked when he didn’t swing on the second and the umpire behind him added a ball to the count.

Nobody saw the third pitch coming.

Nobody.

Nobody but Coach Shaw so much as moved when the ball hit Billy in the side so hard, Steve could hear a crack from where he was standing. Could hear Billy groan as he hit the ground.

Was silent as he laid there holding his side, eyes screwed tight. Shaw crouched down next to him, sounded frantic as he asked Billy if he was okay and if he could move.

But he hadn’t moved. Just laid there. Unmoving. Curled up on his side, body in the dirt. Steve locked his hands around the top of the fence to keep from going out there. To keep from going out there and picking Billy up himself. Picking him up, pulling him close, dragging him away from prying eyes and burying his nose in his hair.

The longer he stayed down, the tighter Steve’s hands locked.

It was a harsh jerk of a movement that helped Billy nod, a harsher jerk, a wince, a hiss that helped him stand with Shaw’s arm around his waist. Walked off the field to claps and cheers from concerned parents and fans, all grateful that he was able to stand.

Steve hadn’t taken a breath since Billy hit the ground. Still felt like he wasn’t breathing when he left the dugout and met him and Shaw off to the side of the fence, brow knitted tight with concern.

Shaw spoke to him first, nodded for him to take a step closer. “Alright, Harrington. You wanna take him to the trainers to get checked out?”

Steve nodded, furiously. Replaced the arm Shaw had around Billy’s lower back and felt a little more like he could breathe when Billy’s arm wrapped around his shoulders. The one that wasn’t holding onto his side like something might fall out if he let go. Felt tape covered knuckles scratch at his bicep, tighten around it when they started to walk.

Waited until they were far enough away to whisper, “Y’okay?”

Almost laughed when he heard Billy say, “Peachy.”

Might’ve, if Billy hadn’t winced immediately after, sucked in a breath that had to have hurt.

If Billy had opened his eyes since he left the field.

Steve just kept walking, slow, but steady enough that it was only going be another minute before they were back at the school. Back inside. Would walk through the locker room and down the hall to the training room.

Billy was talking over at his side, whether it was to Steve or to himself, he didn’t know. Had no choice but to listen.

“Dickhead did it on purpose,” he hissed between harsh breaths. “Playoffs two fuckin’ weeks away, the piece of shit. Probably cracked one of my ribs”

Normally, he would’ve brushed Billy off. Would’ve shaken his head and told him he was being dramatic. That he was looking for a fight and making shit up so that he could get one.

But. He had a point. Steve couldn’t deny that.

It was too big a coincidence that somebody just so happened to nail their best batter in the ribs when they were about to take a serious stab at making it to States.

Steve himself had had games so frustrating he almost took it out on the best batters. Stopped himself more than once from nailing somebody to make himself feel better. To give the team something to scream and get excited about.

The thought of somebody doing that, of someone having that thought about Billy was a boulder in the bottom of his stomach. Sank low. Lower when he got Billy to the training room and had to let go of his waist so that he could sit on the table.

Found a chair on the opposite side of the room. Watched as the trainer poked and prodded and pushed at his ribs. Undid the first few buttons of his jersey to see what his skin looked like beneath it, if it had already bruised over. Made Billy flinch, made his face screw tight and his mouth drop open.

Steve’s hands hurt where they were wrapped around the arm of the chair, itched to stand and push.

Push the guy away, get him away from Billy. To yell and scream and tell him to stop making it worse.

Logically, he knew the guy wasn’t actually making it worse, that he was only doing what he had to, needed to check and see if anything was broken.

Didn’t make it any easier to watch.

He tried to catch his breath as he looked at Billy. Finally took a second to really look at him.

He was covered in dirt. Covered. The entire right side of his body, from the hair that curled near his temple all the way down to his socks, was stained that shade of clay brown. Looked like all the kids Steve had seen over the years, the ones that preferred rolling around in the dirt to playing the game.

Looked young.

It felt like it was hours before the trainer said anything that wasn’t, _‘How about this?’_ or _‘How’s this feel?’_

Felt like he had grey hairs when the guy finally turned to him and said, “Nothing’s broken, just gonna have a really nasty bruise in a couple hours.”

Steve unclenched his hands, felt the blood rush back to them when he opened his palms, felt them tingle.

Listened to the trainer talk to Billy as he stood.

“Just take it easy the next couple of days, alright? It’s gonna be uncomfortable, but it’ll feel better quicker if you don’t do anything to irritate it.”

Steve half expected Billy to argue, was sort of smacked in the face with how bad he actually felt when he just nodded. When Billy finally met his eyes and Steve could see that they were the tiniest bit bloodshot, had probably been holding back tears since he got hit.

He let Steve bring him to the locker room, though. Didn’t put up a fight when Steve sat him down on one of the benches, kneeled down in front of him, between his legs, eyelevel with his chest, skin bare where his jersey was still unbuttoned, wet with sweat, still warm from the sun.

Billy had his head ducked, was panting down towards the ground. Steve put a hand on his thigh, leaned forward to try and get in his sightline, catch his eyes.

“How’s it feel?” he asked, knew it was a little dumb, felt the need to wonder anyway. Wanted to get Billy to talk to him somehow.

“Sucks,” Billy said, laughed once, hardly even a huff. “Better than before, though.”

“That’s good.”

Steve watched him nod, watched him poke his tongue out to lick at his lips. “Probably still gonna be one hell of a bruise.”

“Probably,” Steve agreed. “Not like you need any help looking like a mess.” He brought a hand up to wipe at the dirt on the side of his face, cradled the side of his head in his palm. “You got dirt everywhere.”

Billy huffed, but Steve felt him tilt his head, lean into the touch. “Bet you say that to all the boys.”

He had his eyes half closed, like he was struggling to keep them open. Steve tried not to smile at the joke. Followed the trail of dirt down Billy’s cheek, down the line of his neck, over his shoulder, further towards his middle, over the stitching and raised fabric of embroidered letters.

Caught his thumb on an open button.

Let his eyes fall, slow, level with Billy’s chest. His bare skin. “Can I?”

Billy nodded and Steve could feel his eyes on him as he brought his other hand up, when he undid the last two buttons on his jersey and pushed the two sides apart.

Gave way to smooth skin, tanned and toned and almost hid the dark, round ring that stained his ribcage.

He reached a hand out to touch, to trace over it with just the tip of his middle finger, lighter than air. Felt Billy’s hand go to his shoulder.

“This okay?” he asked, wasn’t looking up, couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from that dark ring of purple and the ladder of hard ribs.

Billy’s hand squeezed around his shoulder, whispered, “You’re fine,” so soft, Steve thought he felt the words tickle his forehead. Felt Billy’s thumb smooth at his collarbone.

Steve took a risk then. Leaned forward.

Pressed his lips to that dark ring, felt the bumps and dips of ribs beneath his mouth and felt Billy’s muscle contract beneath them. Tense.

“This okay?” Again. Soft.

“Yeah.” Breathless.

Steve didn’t pull away. Kissed the bruise the way he’d wanted to when they’d been lining Billy’s thighs all those weeks ago. Just barely pushed his lips against it, to it.

Just brushed over it, again, again, tried to wipe it away with every kiss. Tasted the salt on his tongue, Billy’s sweat. Savored it. Hummed in the back of his throat and felt Billy’s hand slide to hold the nape of his neck, fingers rough and knuckles covered with tape.

Felt Billy’s dick start to harden somewhere near his arm.

Steve didn’t think about it.

Just closed his eyes, slowly, easily, moved. Trailed his lips, down, made sure they touched every single one of Billy’s ribs as he made his way, down over past his stomach, the hard cut of his abs. Felt that line of dark hair below Billy’s navel tickle his lips.

Heard Billy stop breathing when he mouthed at the bulge in the front of his pants, used one hand to push at what his mouth couldn’t get, used the other to work at his fly.

“ _Steve,_ ” Billy whispered, soft between short breaths.

“Shh,” Steve said, shook his head, pulled his zipper down and pulled when Billy lifted his hips, got his pants down along with his underwear.

Felt his mouth water at the sight of Billy’s dick, hard against his stomach. Thick. Leaking.

Didn’t know what to do but lean in and taste. Take.

Pressed his lips along his length. Teased. Worked his way up slow and felt Billy squeeze the back of his neck when he got his mouth around him. Tasted. Swirled his tongue around the head and ran it over the slit. Had to hold Billy’s hips down when he tried to buck up, tried to find more.

Gave him more a few seconds later, when he sunk down and swallowed and took. Found an easy rhythm, spurred on by the soft sounds and the string of curses he could hear above him.

Felt his own dick straining against his pants. Couldn’t help but reach down and palm himself, push, twist. Felt a moan leave his lips that made Billy’s legs shake under his arms.

Billy warned him, too. Warned him when he took him so deep Steve felt him hit the back of his throat. He heard him. Eased off. Did it again. And again. And again.

Heard Billy’s breath catch, felt his body go stiff and swallowed when Billy came down the back of his throat.

Came, too, when he tasted Billy on his tongue and Billy’s fist tightened in the hair at the back of his head, sent that heat to spread up his spine and that warmth to spill over his hand.

He eased off when heard Billy get his breath back, when his hand loosened in his hair. Eased off and helped him get his pants back up.

Billy grabbed at his shoulders when he sat back down. Impatient. Tugged on his jersey to get him up.

“Come here, _Jesus_. Let me-”

“Already uh,” Steve’s cheeks were hot, briefs sticky. Billy’s eyes were too close. Finally. “Already did.”

Billy let out a soft laugh, brought a hand to the base of his neck, smoothed his thumb along the hollow of his throat. “You really are somethin’ else.”

Steve could still taste him when he swallowed. Put his hands between the open parts of Billy’s jersey, spread his hands wide, soft over Billy’s sides. “That’s a good thing, right?”

Billy’s eyes were cool, cool and blue and calm, but his words were warm.

“Yeah, Steve. I-” He paused to nod. “Yeah,” he said, leaned forward to rest his forehead against Steve’s. “That’s a good thing.”

Steve nodded, bumped his forehead against Billy’s, slid one of his hands higher, rested it on Billy’s chest, felt his heartbeat strong under his palm.

“Don’t do that again,” he whispered, felt Billy’s breath on his cheeks when he whispered back.

“Do what?”

“Fuckin’ go down like that,” he said. Clenched his teeth, felt his jaw get tight with it. “Scared the shit out of me.”

“Tell you what,” Billy started, settled his other hand on Steve’s cheek. “Next time some stupid asshole wants to put a hole in my ribs, I’ll try and stay on my feet. Deal?”

“Deal.” Steve smiled, hesitated a second. “And that-I-it wasn’t too much, was it? It didn’t like, hurt your ribs or anything? Me doing that?”

Billy laughed again, quiet. “Did it sound like it hurt?”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

So. He did.

Kissed him, kept it slow. Let Billy lick into his mouth, taste himself and take his time so long as they were alone.

Together.

Had his jersey all buttoned up again by the time the game was over and everybody came storming into the locker room to see how he was doing.

Steve had long changed, sweaty, dirty clothes balled up in his bag. Threw on clean briefs along with the jeans and t-shirt he’d worn under his jersey at school. Was dreading leaving Billy in the locker room and finding his parents. Going out to dinner with them.

Especially now that he didn’t have the quarry to look forward to.

It was a lot easier to stomach with the rest of the team around him. Could’ve laughed at the sheer amount of panic they all threw Billy’s way.

_“Not broken? Thank God.”_

_“Yeah, man. We were gonna be so totally fucked without you.”_

_“Can you breathe? Can you like, stand? How about swing a bat?”_

_“We can’t lose you, dude. You gotta be alright for the next one.”_

_“You’re gonna be back in time for the next game, right?”_

Steve was still laughing about the look on Alex’s face when he asked Billy if they’d ever let him play baseball again days later.

And for all the fear and panic and pain, Billy ended up being fine. Steve had to watch him walk around like somebody pissed in his Cheerios for three days because the trainers wouldn’t let him practice, but he was back by their game on Friday.

Hit a homerun and scored three runs to prove it.

Continued that on through to playoffs, past it.

First Round. Second. Semis. Counties. Regionals. All the way to States.

Steve’s home phone had hardly stopped ringing the entire post-season. An offer from This Coach from That School, This One from Another. The stack of university brochures he’d gotten had piled so high it turned into a second stack. A third.

There was one school he had his eye on, though. A coach with an offer that made his jaw hit the ground. Had the academic program he wanted. A team good enough to put butterflies in his stomach.

States were in Indianapolis this year. They were leaving on a Saturday morning because Shaw wanted them to have time to settle in and get comfortable before their game on Monday. Were going to have to stay a few days because the championship series was best two out of three.

The night before they left, Steve met Billy at the quarry. Like they’d been doing at least twice a week since Billy had been feeling better.

Drove up. Killed the engine. Smiled when Billy killed the Camaro’s next to him. Got out and followed Billy into the backseat and crawled on top of him. Pushed Billy into the leather and kissed him so hard he couldn’t breathe.

Rolled around, lazy, hazy. Wasted time and fogged up the windows and came when Billy took them both in his hand and bit down on his neck, whispered things Steve knew were going to make him blush days later.

Almost started all over again when they caught their breath and Billy brought his hand up to his mouth. Licked it clean.

Sometime later, when the windows had long lost their fog and their legs started to cramp, they got out. Left the backseat in favor of the trunk of Steve’s BMW. Passed a cigarette back and forth even though Coach put an explicit ban on smoking during the post-season.

What he didn’t know wouldn’t kill him.

Steve blew a line of smoke out towards the sky, felt Billy’s thigh knock into his, warm.

Held his breath.

“I got an offer from Purdue yesterday.”

He held the cigarette back out to Billy, watched thick fingers replace his own, bring it up to his lips.

“Purdue,” Billy said, took a drag, spoke on the exhale. “That’s uh. That’s the one you visited a couple weeks ago, right? You liked that one?”

Steve nodded, kicked his feet against the bumper. “Yep. Loved it.”

“And? What’d they offer?”

He turned his head, found that Billy had already been looking at him, blue eyes wide. Calm.

Steve swallowed hard, squeezed his legs through his jeans.

“Full ride.”

“No shit.” Billy’s face broke out into a smile so wide Steve thought it might crack his face. Laughed when Billy threw the cigarette out towards the ground, wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Felt something warm spread in his chest when Billy pulled him in closer and pressed a hard kiss to his temple. “That’s fuckin’ amazing, Steve. What are you gonna say?”

“Gonna say yes,” he said, hooked a hand under the inside of Billy’s thigh, fought back a shiver when Billy let his thumb go long, played at the sensitive skin back behind his ear.

“Yeah, you are,” Billy said, sounded proud about it. Made the pride between Steve’s ribs expand so wide he thought it might burst. “Gonna go play division one ball and kick ass. _That’s_ what you’re gonna do.”

“Yeah, okay.” He felt his smile widen when Billy leaned his temple against his. “Let’s see if I even touch the field as a freshman.”

Billy huffed. “If they wanna win games, you will.”

“I think you’re kinda biased.”

“I think I don’t care.”

“Asshole,” Steve snorted. Leaned further into Billy’s side. Into his warmth. “You know what the best part about Purdue is?”

“What?”

“Drive’s only an hour and a half,” he said, squeezed Billy’s thigh. “So you can come visit whenever you want.”

Billy’s thumb went still, though. His voice was tentative, slow when he spoke again.

“But that’s not the only reason you wanna go there,” he paused, “right? Because an hour and a half’s not that far.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And if you wanna go somewhere further, you shouldn’t be thinking about me. You should-”

“Billy,” Steve was smiling when he cut him off, nudged Billy with his shoulder to get him to back up a couple inches, to look him in the eye properly. “I never said I wanted to go far.”

“But you said-”

“I wanted to get out of my house, yeah. Wanna get out of this shithole town,” he started, “but I wanna be able to get back here if the kids need me. Or if my folks need me.” Steve squeezed his leg. Dropped his voice down. “If you need me.”

Billy had still yet to move, had still yet to stop frowning.

“I don’t wanna hold you back.”

Steve had yet to stop smiling.

“Good thing you’re not then.”

“You’re serious?” Billy asked. Stock still. Watching him. “You’re not just blowing smoke up my ass?”

“I’m serious, I-I _want_ this. I mean, this school’s got everything I ever wanted. Like, completely separate from everybody else.” He held Billy’s eyes, wanted him to understand that he wasn’t kidding, that he was telling the truth. Let his smile shift to one side when Billy nodded. “And if it also happens to be close enough that you can come up and stay over on weekends, I guess I just got lucky.”

Billy caught his lower lip between his teeth, smiled so wide it broke through it, despite it. Like he’d been trying to hold it in.

“Yeah?”

Like hope.

“Yeah.”

“I’m gonna kiss the hell out of you now.”

“About time you did.”

Billy kissed him.

They left for Indianapolis in the morning.

They didn’t win States. Lost by a run in game three on a fluke play. Total blind luck.

Steve had a good feeling Billy would bring them back again next spring.

He went to Purdue in the fall.

Billy was up in the stands for every single one of his scrimmages from August to December. Still drove up to see as many of Steve’s games as he could once the spring came and both their seasons were in full swing. The same way Steve drove down to see as many of Billy’s as he could.

Was standing right next to him when the scout from Notre Dame shook his hand and offered him a scholarship.

They got out.

Baseball helped them get there. They helped each other get there, too.

**Author's Note:**

> i quit baseball in the fourth grade and had to do a hell of a lot of googling for this fic, so if i messed up any of the rules pls blame my coach for letting me throw dirt while i was supposed to be playing (i mean really, who knew high school baseball only had seven innings)
> 
> and as always, i really hope you liked it!! come find me on tumblr @holdenduckfield


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